His Brother's Sword
by Fred the Great
Summary: Based on a single, very plausible "what if" revealed in the Prologue, this will explore an alternative story of House Stark. Written for my enjoyment - and hopefully for others - of the world of ASOIAF, created and owned by GRRM, for whom I am grateful.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

" _Walk with me brother."_

Something in his tone told him that this would be the moment that he had been waiting for since his elder kin's return days before. At first he felt somewhat confident as he followed closely behind. While he could not deny his nerves, this was a talk they had to have and he wanted – no, he needed this if he was to move on, in more ways than one. But as he realised where he was being led, as they passed through the ironwood door and began the descent down the narrow, winding steps, he felt a knot growing in his stomach.

Why here, he wanted to know, why has he chosen this place of all places? Maybe, he thought, the man leading him through the dimly-lit chamber had developed a sense for the dramatic. That was new. Then, there would be something new wouldn't there? The war would have changed him; it had changed them all.

Well, his mind was clear. He had thought on this long and hard, and would not have it dismissed as the whim of a man too young. The news that his brother had sent ahead of his return had made his decision for him; he would not deny that, though the idea had first appealed in a happier time. Yes, he needed his permission. He felt he did, but had he not earned it? He had remained here; he had done his duty.

They paused where there were no statues. Those would come later. Maybe he would see them one day, maybe not. They would only be a reminder of all that they had lost, for which he felt more than grief. He looked to his brother and saw that his eyes were focussed down, out of the light and into the long shadows it cast against the walls. The awkward silence that replaced the sound of their footsteps unnerved him further so he seized the initiative.

"Father always said a man could find honour in the Watch," he began.

" _Aye, he did."_

"You believe it too."

It wasn't a question, but there was no hesitation in his response.

" _Aye, I do."_

The stillness between them resumed for a moment and the initial sense that he had gained his agreement was replaced by uncertainty. He had anticipated an argument. What was his brother thinking?

" _Do you know the words of my lady wife's house?"_

The question surprised him but his learning made the answer come to his lips without any apparent thought.

"Family, duty, honour."

" _Her father told me you find the most meaning in the order. All are important, but it is family before duty and it is duty before honour. That's the message."_

"They're not our words," he replied quietly; a weak response that he would regret when he later reflected on the conversation.

" _They're not our words,"_ he agreed, as he finally turned to look him in the eye.

" _Our words are a warning brother, and more._ _Winter is coming_. _We don't know when, but it is coming, and we must be prepared for whatever it brings._ _When the time comes, we will need our family around us to help us . . . to help us to remember our duty and to uphold our honour._ _You will not go."_

Angered and bewildered, he went to speak, not even sure what was to come out of his mouth before he was silenced while drawing breath.

" _Can you swear on our sister's bones that she would want that of you? That she would want you – only barely a man – to live out your days on the Wall? Can you swear on the memories of our father and of our brother that they would approve of you leaving me here with a wife not of our lands and a babe for an heir? Can you?"_

There was no hiding now as he willed himself to look up to meet the icy stare.

"What I did," he began, trying to find the words, but in his hesitation his brother interrupted.

" _What you did? If peace is to be found at the Wall brother then I have a greater claim than you. Whatever you believe yourself guilty of, I assure you it is little next to what I have done, what I have seen, since we last met."_

He looked away and his voice softened.

" _Maybe if I was a better man I would let you go with my blessing, but I can't, I won't. I will bind you here because you are family and we are too few, and you will stay and do your duty to our family, and there will be honour in that too. I will give you estates to manage, your own keep, a title, a wedding to a fine Northern bride. Maybe in a year or two – there's no rush – though I have had offers already. You will be my right-hand man, my sworn shield; you will . . . you will help me to do all that I must."_

The cold hardness returned as his brother's eyes found his again.

" _You will accept this and speak no more of leaving us."_

And no more words were spoken as his brother left him alone with the tombs of their kin; his steps echoing as he walked through the dark hall of the dead. And in that moment Benjen Stark realised that he would serve his brother still until the day when his bones might be laid here too.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1 – The Stark in Winterfell**

Benjen Stark sighed as he stretched out in his brother's chair, his head following his raised arms up to the rafters above. He allowed his hands to drop to the desk, folding the last of the letters he had written through the morning with a small sense of satisfaction. He turned to call for a servant before changing his mind. Deciding he wouldn't be confined to Ned's solar for all his days, he gathered his little pile of letters, stood and walked to the door, taking from a hook his heavy woollen cloak.

The acting Lord of Winterfell was pleased for the warmth it gave him as he emerged into the castle courtyard to the sound of clattering swords. One by one the men and boys turned to recognise his presence as two armoured foes continued their sparring. Their faces hidden by the helms that they wore, he could readily recognise from their armour and appearance that his nephew Robb and Benjen's own son were locked in combat.

Robb had turned his head to see what had drawn their spectators' attention and Artos tried to take full advantage, advancing with a flurry as he furiously swung his training sword. Ned's heir was taken aback, forced on the defensive, but as Benjen continued to walk closer he could hear Robb laughing as their swords clanged over and over. Artos was tall and broad for his age and already good with a sword, but Robb had more than two years on him and the older boy's greater experience and strength soon showed. As Benjen came to the edge of the yard his son's sword had been knocked from his grasp and both boys were removing their helms.

Still laughing, Robb looked to Benjen: "Had you planned that uncle?"

"I would say that I did, but I merely wished to stretch my legs," he replied. "It seems Artos has taught you a lesson – do not allow yourself to become distracted."

"Aye, but I still won the bout," a smug Robb replied.

"Train with us father," Artos called, "and wipe that silly grin off my lord cousin's face."

Amused guardsmen and young lords alike looked to Benjen for his answer.

"Tomorrow perhaps," he said cheerfully. "But I see Jon is ready and if Robb wishes for a challenge you might see how he fares against the both of you. In battle, the odds are seldom fair."

Robb's eyes opened wide at the idea and Benjen had a chuckle of his own as he resumed his walk. It was good to hear Robb at ease, if only for a while. His worry for his brother seemed to be ever present, even if it had been many days since Bran's accident. As the boy lay sleeping between this world and the next, a dark cloud remained over Winterfell. It had not have been helped by Ned, his girls and many of the household leaving with the King.

Rounding the kitchens, Benjen reached the maester's turret and opened the door, realising at once that he could not recall when he had last entered this part of the castle. He climbed the stairs before he emerged at another door. His knock was met with a call of "come". The Maester likely thought it was but a servant.

"Oh, my Lord Benjen, I did not anticipate you would be calling on me," the small older man apologised from among a hoard of books and other clutter as he stood to greet his visitor.

"It's quite alright Maester Luwin," Benjen replied, motioning him to sit. "I thought to draw breath from outside my brother's solar. I find it a little suffocating and I wanted to bring you the letters that we discussed."

"Very well. I have the ravens ready my lord," the grey-haired man said as he accepted the offered papers.

"Thank you," Benjen said, shifting a heavy tome from an otherwise empty chair.

He felt Luwin eyeing him carefully, while he took in his surrounds, content with the silence between them.

"If I may say so my lord, I believe your actions are prudent. I think your brother would agree," the Maester offered.

Benjen shrugged his shoulders.

"I think my brother has other concerns," he said.

"Of course my lord and I wish I had something new to tell you – and his lady mother – of young Bran, but I cannot say that I do."

"Hmm, Bran . . . and Catelyn. I suppose we both wish we could do something. Her sister's letter, then Bran's accident and Ned's leaving . . . a difficult time.

"Robb worries about how much time his mother is spending at Bran's side," he continued. "But Alys has taken Rickard under her wing and who am I to tell a mother not to keep vigil by her son?"

"True my lord," Luwin replied. "Your daughter seems quite adept at caring for Rickon. I can assure you I have been urging Lady Catelyn to eat and to get some air and rest. I don't think even her lord husband could convince her to stray from Bran's room too far or for too long though."

"Well, Maester, I suppose we can but trust in the Old Gods or the New, in your case and Catelyn's perhaps, and go about our work," Benjen said.

"Yes, yes," Luwin agreed as he stood to see his visitor out. "The ravens will not send themselves."


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 – A Darker Cloud**

Artos Stark was in his own world as he walked the halls of Winterfell. A few moments earlier, he and his twin Alys had entered their uncle's solar after being summoned by their father. While Alys was told to take a seat, Artos was immediately put on the spot. He found himself unable to answer why he had failed to visit Bran since his cousin's fall. Mercifully, his father didn't wait for long, but simply sent him on his way with instructions to sit with Bran for a while.

Alys had urged Artos to visit Bran on more than one occasion. It was not that she thought he cared little for their cousin. She knew he did. Bran seemed to look up to her brother as much as Robb. Being closer in age, and Robb being the heir, Bran perhaps felt even closer to Artos. Now, one second she worried that Artos would be angry with her for his having earned their father's disapproval, and the next she wondered what she had done to be sitting here herself. Father hadn't really been hard on Artos, but he had told Alys to sit down and now he was sitting there in silence, just staring off into the distance. This was worse.

Having got such short shrift from his father, Artos was thinking hard as he made his way to see his cousin. Why had he not done so before? He liked Bran. Did his father think that he didn't? He just didn't want to see him lying there, dying. That was what he had overheard so many say – that Bran was sure to die. Artos didn't want to see him like that, but he didn't want to admit it either. That would seem weak, cowardly, he knew. Alys had nagged him but she didn't understand. She couldn't.

"I would like your mother to have been here for this . . . this talk," Benjen began. Looking at her, he marvelled, as he so often did, how much she looked like her mother. Then he saw the fear in her eyes and realised he had unsettled her.

"I'm sorry Alys," he spat out. "You're not in any trouble. I'm proud of you for how you have taken such good care of Rickon since Bran's accident and of how you've helped without complaint. I have written to your mother to tell her."

Seeing her relax and smile a little, Benjen felt relieved and continued on, slightly more upbeat.

"I only wanted to tell you Alys that I will be talking about betrothals for you soon. Not that you will be wed soon, you must understand. Just talk. There may be an agreement. But I wanted you to know that I will be travelling across the North and, well, there may be an agreement. Do you have any questions?"

Still engrossed in his own thoughts, Artos didn't hear the shouting from outside and he barely noticed Robb hurry past him. He kept on walking and thinking. Pausing at Bran's room, he took a deep breath before entering. Still with one hand on the door he froze as took in the room. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bran lying motionless, rugged up in his bed. But that was all that felt right. Lady Catelyn was standing, facing him. Her eyes darted between him and a man before Artos. He was a small man; a servant, a catspaw; with dirty blond hair, and a blade. The man turned his back away from the door, so he could take in the newcomer.

"You weren't s'posed to be here neither," he told Artos.

Time seemed to slow for Artos. He saw the knife, he saw his aunt draw breath, he saw the man hesitating and he saw himself draw his own dagger from his belt. The catspaw reacted, menacing Artos with his dagger in his right hand while trying to grasp hold of Catelyn with his left. The young Stark tentatively slashed at the man's arm in a wide arc but found only air as he backed away, while the family matriarch fended off the arm that blindly reached out to seize her.

Alys was stunned. Her father wanted to marry her to some Northern lordling? Who? Not now, but sometime, when? She wanted answers but no words came from her mouth. She took a breath. This was to be expected though, wasn't it? Not so long ago she had sat in Winterfell's Great Hall and heard of Sansa's betrothal to the Crown Prince. Her cousin was younger than her. Many of the family – her mother, Lady Catelyn, Sansa herself – even thought she was jealous and assured her that her father would find her a husband when he, not she, but he, was ready. That wasn't really true – that she was jealous – Alys just thought Joffrey was insufferable. But would her husband be much better?

Benjen was expecting half a hundred questions, but his daughter just sat there quietly, not making eye contact. What else could or should he say, he wondered. How he wished her mother was here. Had he even been right to tell her this? Just as it appeared Alys was about to break her silence there were shouts from outside. He stood and walked to the window, looking out around the yard, seeing guards and servants running about towards the Library Tower.

"Fire," he said, and then again louder, "Fire!"

"Stay here Alys, I best attend to this. I'm sure it will be out soon."

Alys took her father's place by the window, even the chaos below failing to take her mind from the prospect of being wedded and bedded in the near future.

The stranger was becoming desperate now, his eyes flitting back and forth between Artos and Catelyn. For but a second he looked beyond Artos and out the door, from where there was the sound of someone – or something – approaching fast. Benjen Stark's son rushed forward, stabbing with a measured aim at the man's knife arm and feeling the point push through clothes and into flesh, seeing a spray of blood and a shiny dagger fall. Then a blur went past him and he saw not desperation but absolute terror in the catspaw's eyes as a direwolf lept at his throat. In an instant Summer had her jaws around his neck and was shaking the life from him. Artos froze again. Only now did he become aware of the screaming, the yelling, Catelyn's, his and the awful, terrible noise of the dirty little man as he died.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 – Our Words Are a Warning**

"How can we be certain that he was alone?"

There was ice in her tone and Benjen knew she was as angry as she was fearful. He looked around his solar – Ned's solar. Robb was standing behind his mother, wearing armour, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Maester Luwin was seated, and behind him was Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's man-at-arms. None spoke. None would. It was for him to answer Lady Catelyn, to give her some reassurance.

"Cat, we have searched the castle and have found no one who should not be here," Benjen said.

"It is possible that he had help – that another man lit the fire; we cannot be certain. But no one has tried to leave Winterfell since the attempt on Bran's life. We have guards posted at Bran's door . . ."

He was going to add that Artos and Summer were there too, forming an inner guard, but the words didn't come. Benjen had seen what Artos and Catelyn had seen. While Bran slept on, the catspaw's body was removed and servants toiled to clean away the blood; so much blood. Artos, he was told, had left the room for a while as they fussed, returning with his sword. When Benjen went to check on his nephew again, his son was standing vigil, positioned between Bran and the door. He acknowledged his father with a serious nod. Benjen had nodded back. Words were not needed.

"This is the work of the Lannisters. Killing children is no line they have not crossed before. Ned must be told. I will take a ship from White Harbour. They didn't leave long ago and it's faster by ship. I should be in Kings Landing before them."

Catelyn's words stunned the men, and she seemed to anticipate their objections.

"You must know this Benjen," she insisted. "That man came here with the King's party. He carried a Valyrian steel dagger and had a rich purse – certainly for a servant who smelt of the horses. If it was not the Lannisters, then who was responsible? Who would try to kill my boy in his bed?"

"But what do they have to gain? They risk a war."

Robb's question brought a pause. Catelyn and Benjen were staring at each other.

"Your uncle and Maester Luwin know this already Robb and Ser Rodrik," Catelyn began. "But before the King even arrived and asked Ned to be Hand, I received word from my sister that her husband – Lord Arryn – was murdered by the Lannisters."

"Then why did father accept? Why did he go to Kings Landing where they could kill him too?"

"I . . . the King was asking," Catelyn replied. "He had to accept, and as Hand he can find the truth, bring justice to Jon Arryn's killers."

Benjen bit his lip. This wasn't a battle for now, not in front of Robb. But she saw his look. She knew. Ned had not wanted to go and Benjen had been of the same mind. He had reminded him – though his brother had felt no reminder was necessary – that the Starks did not do well in the south. It was Catelyn who argued for him to go and she had got her way. But Benjen wouldn't forget.

"Lady Arryn's letter is indeed worrying, and, from what you heard this criminal say, it seems clear he was paid – and paid well – to harm young Bran," Maester Luwin offered, his speech slow and considered. "But I am asking myself why a second son and not the first?"

"Bran was like a rat scurrying around the castle, up and down walls, even after you and Ned forbid it Cat," Benjen said. "I have asked myself the same question as our good Maester and I can only think the boy heard or saw something."

"Maybe," Catelyn said. "Until he awakes to tell, we won't know. What we do know is that Lannisters killed my sister's husband and now they've tried to kill my son. I need to take this dagger to Ned."

"But why you?" Robb asked. "Why would you go to Kings Landing? I could take some men and ride out after them. With that wheelhouse slowing them down, we'll catch up soon enough and then father will have more men at his side."

"Because we must keep what we know close to us," Catelyn said. "Your place is here with your uncle, learning how to be a lord. I can make this journey quietly. I will travel alone as a wife of a minor lord or a merchant even."

"No, absolutely not," Benjen interceded.

"Then who Benjen? You know it must be me. If the banners must be called, will they respond to a southerner? You cannot go, and I will not have Robb out there."

"You will take a guard," he insisted.

"I would be honoured to serve," Ser Rodrik said proudly.

"I will be pleased to have you by my side Ser," Catelyn said warmly, "and you alone."

"And 10 of our guard. You should soon enough be able to find a ship that will give passage for a party of 12 if you ask around."

"One plus Ser Rodrik, and no more, else we will draw too much attention."

"Six," Benjen said. It had become a contest of wills, and Catelyn took a different tact. Holding her tongue, she narrowed her eyes at her good brother. She was of the south, and no one in the North would ever forget that, it was true, but right now she was as fierce as any she-wolf protecting her cubs.

"My lady, my lord," a hesitant Ser Rodrik entered the fray. "May I suggest that three would be a good number? Still a small group but enough to provide a watch at night so none are too tired to keep their wits about them?"

"Choose them yourself," Benjen instructed the peacemaker. "You will keep the Lady Catelyn safe above all else."

"Yes my lord, you have my word," the stout man said as he stiffened his shoulders and looked to the door.

"We are not done," Benjen said. "Before you leave, I would have your thoughts on a new captain of the guard to replace your nephew and a man-at-arms to act for you. I have need of a rider too to take a message to my wife. I will summon her to help care for the children Cat."

"I would be pleased to know your lady wife is here in Winterfell while I am away," Catelyn responded with a weak smile. Benjen was not convinced of her sincerity, having long believed she was jealous of his wife, but it mattered not.

"Then it is settled," Benjen said. "Catelyn, go to Ned. Tell him I remember our words. The North will be ready."

Catelyn stood to leave, but Benjen had merely turned his attention to her son.

"Robb, send for Jon and Artos. We have plans to make."

"Jon? I thought he was to go to the Watch," Catelyn said, much of the tension back in her voice.

"I will not be permitting my nephew to leave us now, while I am the Stark in Winterfell and while we face this threat," Benjen pronounced. "Jon would lay down his life for his brothers and I have need of loyal men."

Robb was beaming at his statement, while the look on his mother's face gave Benjen some measure of satisfaction. Hurting her was not his goal, but he did not feel one jolt of guilt. Jon was family, whether Cat liked it or not.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 – Comings and Goings**

Standing atop the North Gate, Benjen Stark stared off into the distance at the approaching party a pimple-faced guard had sighted a minute or two before. A score or more riders were led by a duo holding banners. At such a distance, to an untrained eye, one looked white with a grey smudge in the middle, while the other had a brown centre surrounded by flame-red. The young guard – Benjen did not know his name – had not been entirely confident in announcing the impending arrival of Starks and Umbers, but he was not wrong. They were here.

The afternoon sun felt pleasant on his face as he stood and watched, but he was hit too with a pinch of embarrassment. Grown men – lords no less – were not expected to let their excitement run away from them. In Benjen's case, it was a literal reaction as he had charged heedlessly to the gatehouse upon hearing the call and taken the steps two at a time. Sheepishly, he walked back down to the yard, admonishing himself at the same time for caring what others may think. His wife and youngest child were coming. Why should he not be happy? The household was gathering beside and behind him.

"Doubtless we have all been looking forward to seeing your good wife again uncle," a bemused Robb observed.

Benjen suppressed a chuckle at his own behaviour. Looking past his nephew and down the line, he was gladdened by how the young Starks seemed a little more at ease. Ned and his girls travelling south with the King, Bran's fall before that and then the attempt on his life, Catelyn leaving only a day past – it had taken a toll. Alys, with her hand on Rickon's shoulder, met his gaze with a smile. She would be happy to see her mother. Theon the ward, Jon and Artos were there too, of course. His son was still not himself and Benjen worried. He realised he had become lonely here with no one to share his thoughts with; no one with whom it would feel right.

The heir to the Last Hearth was the first through the gates. A giggling young girl was perched on his lap, held securely by one arm. She squealed as she recognised those gathered before them.

"Father! Alys! Artos!"

Three-year-old Serena Stark's exuberance brought her father forward and she squealed as he lifted her from Jon Umber's lap and high into the air.

"From favoured cousin to forgotten in a moment," the young man known as Smalljon said with mock offence.

"Too much competition here I'm afraid," Benjen replied as he put down his squirming daughter, who immediately ran to hug her sister while shyly eyeing off Rickon.

"Never mind, I am sure I can find some competition in the training yard, yes uncle?"

"I heard that nephew," a new voice interrupted. "And I will not have you competing with my husband to see who can leave who with the most bruises while I am around. Or the winner may get a few more."

Benjen smiled up at his wife who was seated on a beautiful chestnut mare, a gift of his for her last name day. A sea of familiar faces on horseback flowed through the gates behind her.

"My lady wife," he said. "My heart has been bruised since I left you."

"Such flowery words," Arrana Stark smirked as she gracefully dismounted and walked towards him. "I think my husband spent too long with the perfumed men of the King's Court."

Guests and hosts alike laughed at the couple's reunion, and Benjen went a slight shade of red as he joined in the mirth, before stepping closer and wrapping her in a tight embrace.

"I did miss you," he said quietly.

"Of course you did," she replied.

Turning to two men waiting a respectful distance behind his wife, Benjen greeted his captain of guards, Desmond, and his steward's son, Pate. Both acknowledged him with the customary "my lord" and nods of their head, before in turn warmly accepting his outstretched hand.

"Des, Pate, get the men settled into the Guards Hall – there'll be room aplenty with my brother having taken half the Winterfell guard south," their lord instructed. "I will spend some time with my family tonight and tomorrow morning we shall talk."

* * *

Their lovemaking may have lacked the excitement or passion of their younger days, but both were content in how comfortable they felt with each other.

"I don't know if you missed me or missed that," Arrana said lightly to her husband after he collapsed on to the bed beside her.

"Both," he replied. "And that's the second time you've left me breathless today."

"Oh I heard about your little run up to the top of the gatehouse from Alys," she said. "So, start talking Benjen Stark."

"Where do I start?"

"Bran sleeps still, our son and a direwolf interrupted an attempt on his life, and Catelyn has left her boys to visit with her husband. That much I gathered from Alys. Oh, you're also planning to wed her to who knows who. Artos is troubled, probably by seeing a man's throat ripped out. Jon was set to go to the Wall, but you decided he's staying and Catelyn was none too happy. You've summoned lords from across the North. Oh, and Robb is talking of war."

"That sounds like the sum of it," Benjen said. "Though Robb shouldn't speak so openly of war and I am praying to the Old Gods it does not come to that. Ned will do what he can to keep the peace."

Arrana turned on her side and looked at him with caring eyes.

"Starks do not do well in the South," she said.

"No," he agreed. "We do not."

Abruptly she sat bolt upright, pulling the covers up over her naked breasts and taking a deep breath.

"So," she said. "Tell me what's on your mind. You're not one to sit idly by. What have you done about all of this and what are you planning to do?"

Beginning with the lords he had summoned to Winterfell, he told her what he would ask of them when they arrived and of the tasks he planned to give Desmond, Pate and others of the household in the morning. She listened and nodded her head. He knew himself that he was stalling by withholding what he expected were his more contentious plans from her, but she wasn't going anywhere.

"I asked for Smalljon to accompany you back here, assuming he hadn't already left for home, because I want him to travel with Artos and Jon to meet with Bolton, Karstark and your brother," he said.

"That's a long journey, especially as a round trip. Could not you have our nephew take what messages you would have of these lords on his way home? Why send Artos and Jon?"

"Bolton and Karstark would not take too well to an Umber speaking on my behalf on such matters. Artos is too young, but Jon is a bastard. If I send them together, with Smalljon by their side, it should do."

"Jon is a bastard," she repeated with disapproval evident in her tone. "If this is how you see him, then I don't understand why you didn't want him to join the Watch? Was is it for him or was it more to do with Catelyn?"

"No, that's not how I see him," Benjen insisted. "But that's how others might see him and I must consider this. He's my nephew Arr. I love him like I love all of Ned's kids. If you had seen the way Cat treated him when the King was here . . . Well, he is part of the family whether she likes it or not, and I didn't want him to go like that, pushed out like he's nothing to us, so I said I have need of him. If I hurt Cat by going against her on this, then so be it."

"Ben, for Catelyn, Jon is a constant reminder of her husband's betrayal. You must know this. Think as if you were her. She's forced to marry a man to tie her house to his in a time of war. He would have appeared to her – I don't doubt – as a man of honour. He beds her, puts a baby in her belly and leaves her. Then he returns, with a bastard baby to threaten her own son's birthright."

"Jon is no threat to Robb. He cannot inherit. He is as loyal as any of our kin."

"That's not the point," Arrana said sharply. "You love your brother, I love him too, but no man is flawless. When people talk of Ned Stark they call him honourable and you know how important his honour is to him. Yet for Cat, this honourable man who gave her his cloak, betrayed her by sharing his bed with another woman like any other man might and only a month or two after he had bedded her. It's not Jon's fault, but for her, seeing him is a painful reminder of that betrayal."

Benjen stared into the hearth. It was easier to think harshly of his good sister for her behaviour towards Jon. What Arrana had said – and she was right – made it understandable, almost forgivable. But then to hear her speak of his brother like that did not sit well with him either.

"Really, I imagined he surprised everyone when he brought a baby back with him from the war," she continued. "My brother didn't believe it was true."

"What?"

"At first, when the word went around that Ned had a . . . had Jon . . . my brother didn't believe it. I remember that. He thought he was too honourable to do such a thing. You must admit, if you had never known of Jon, you wouldn't believe it either."

"Like you said, we all have our flaws," he answered.

"Oh no," she said in a changed voice as she lay across his chest. "I said 'no man is flawless'. We women are perfect. Is that not right husband?"

"I'm too flawed to know," Benjen replied as his hand slid across her thigh and grasped her naked bottom. "But this feels perfect to me."

Arrana smiled, bit her lip a little and touched his face. Moving closer, he responded by helping to close the distance and they found each other. Hands wandered, touching gently, pausing here and there, feeling, grasping, pinching, as they kissed slowly, more sensually than before. She felt him rise and encouraged him further. Then, she pulled back from him and waited for his eyes to open.

"Ben, tell me, to who are you planning to marry our daughter?"

* * *

Morning came too soon. His eyes opened to find his wife already dressed and about to desert him to break her fast, believing, he expected, that she was leaving him to his slumber. A servant entered and was greeted to the unusual sight of Benjen Stark still abed. Both were made a little uncomfortable. He was known as an early riser. But then he almost always went down earlier than he had the night before. Catching up with his wife after a few moons of being apart was exhausting. The woman in his room mumbled "m'lord", gave a curt bow and left. He wasted no time in arising himself. There was work to be done.

In the Great Hall, he found what remained in Winterfell of House Stark. His wife gave a welcoming smile as she noted his appearance; while Serana, on her lap, went a little shy as she was wont to do. Around the table, eating or having had their fill but lingering anyway, the other children – and he still saw all of them as children, even the older boys who were really young men, or almost – were cheerful. That was until the subject changed to Bran. Arrana had gone to see him soon after she had arrived, he knew. But Serena asked for him and they had told her he was sleeping. Like the innocent child she was, she now demanded someone go wake him to break his fast and could not understand why they would not. Serena was only satisfied when Alys promised to take her to visit him.

His hunger satisfied and his mind turning to his plans for the morning, Benjen looked across to the next table, noting that Pate was attentively keeping an eye on him, ready to jump when called, while Desmond kept eating. The latter was a big man, taller and broader of shoulder than Smalljon even. Not fat, but he could eat until the food stopped coming.

Around him, his kin were rising from their seats. Smalljon had convinced Artos and Jon to spar with him, not that he had to twist their arms. Benjen had spoken to the trio before retiring the night before and they knew they were not required. When Arrana rose to take his daughters and Rickon with her, Benjen did the same, calling to Robb, Theon and his own sworn men to follow. Winterfell's new Captain of Guards, Hallis Mollen, appeared as they began their walk. The new steward – promoted to serve in place of Vayon Poole – and Maester Luwin reached the solar only a moment after the others taken their seats. Seven men gathered to hear what their lord – their acting lord – had to say, and he did not keep them waiting.

"Winter is coming," Benjen began, with words he has rehearsed in his head. "These are not only the words of my House, they are a warning; a warning that we must be on guard for whatever may come."

Their attention gained, he told of some of what he knew – hinting that there was more – and then told of the task he had set Artos and Jon, with the aid of Smalljon, and, in a similar light, of his own pending journey. He gave some instruction to Hallis and Desmond of the men and horses both parties would need. Then he got to the point of why he had gathered them.

"All of you will be remaining here at Winterfell, or at least on Stark lands, but you will not be idle," he said firmly. "Lord Eddard took 50 of our best men with him when he went south. Ser Rodrik went with Lady Catelyn. First, I would increase the guard . . ."

"My lord, with your men here, we are 20 short today than when Lord Eddard left," Hallis interrupted.

"I was aware," Benjen replied, questioning for a moment whether his appointment was a wise decision.

"But I want more than an extra score of men-at-arms to stand on Winterfell's walls. I want men to serve here and at Moat Cailin. Yes, I plan to occupy the stronghold again, though not with undue haste.

"Hallis and Des, you will send men across the Stark estates. I want 50 men with horse, armour and lance, and 100 archers. Every man who signs up for a year can have half a moon's pay in advance, but I want good men. Not mere watchmen. Is that clear?"

Almost in unison they replied "yes, my lord".

"In this, Theon will help. You're the best man with a bow left here in Winterfell, or so you would have us believe, and a noble too, so you can serve as captain of our archers. You will help choose the men who take our coin and then train them. I will pay you fairly too."

Theon merely nodded, but Benjen could see he was pleased to be given a task. Or maybe it was the extra coin that would buy him . . . well, they all knew what it bought him in Winter Town. No matter. Better to put him to work than have him idle.

"This is not all," he continued. "If war does come, I want our own levies to be ready. I want each and every estate visited and new records made on how many men we can call upon. Pate, this is your responsibility, with what help you decide you need."

"Yes, my lord," the quietly spoken young man responded. Benjen knew Pate could bring order to chaos with quill and parchment and impeccable planning where nothing was ever amiss.

"In a moon or so, when our guard is strengthened, in each corner of our lands, in turn, we will bring the levies of those parts together to train for a few days. Should we call the banners, this will give us an advantage from the beginning.

"Robb, this is also an opportunity for you to be among your people, so I would have you there."

"Of course, Uncle, I would be pleased."

More discussion followed on what was expected, and Benjen was pleased with most of the questions and offerings of the men he was charging to prepare for whatever may come. Luwin sat quietly throughout. It was he who Benjen was counting on to ensure that the others – all inexperienced to a larger or lesser degree – did as they were bid. Content as well as he could be he sent them all on their way. There was another talk he had to have before he laid eyes on his wife again or else he would earn her wrath.

* * *

Artos was scrubbing his armour in a quiet corner of the yard. Rickon's direwolf, Shaggydog, lay nearby, sleeping in the sun. The pup raised his head when he heard the nearing footsteps, before collapsing back down when he realised who it was. Alerted to his father's presence, Artos emptied his hands and stood before him.

"Father," he said. "I was just cleaning my armour."

"I can see that," Benjen replied. "It's good to see. You take care of your armour . . ."

"And it will take care of you," Artos finished.

Benjen gave his only son a little grin. So he had imparted a few useful nuggets of wisdom, he thought, but it was only getter harder.

"Walk with me son," he said. "I would talk to you more before you go on the morrow."

The youth suddenly looked uncertain, and his father realised after a moment he was worried about leaving his armour on the ground, which would ordinarily earn him a stern talking to, if not more. Was he really so harsh on his son, Benjen wondered.

"Leave it," he said, before turning and calling for the nearest guard to come and return it to the armoury for further scrubbing. When the guard was out of earshot, he remarked to his son, walking beside him: "Having a lord for a father isn't all bad."

Artos nodded his head but that was all.

They reached the Godswood in silence and Benjen led on until they stood before the heart tree. He turned to his son, who now looked particularly worried. The eldest Stark in Winterfell was inwardly kicking himself for making the boy so uneasy. He plopped down by the tree with the face and beckoned his son to join him.

"You will find when you are older that it can be harder to give praise than to . . . Anyway, I want you to know your mother and I . . . we could not be more proud of you," he said. His son turned his face away, but Benjen knew he was listening.

"Your uncle wanted me to have a family, to have more Starks who would grow up to support his son, and their sons, I guess. I did not know then what I do now. But that is something for you to learn for yourself when you marry and are given children.

"Artos, when that man tried to kill Bran, you and Summer saved his life and probably your Aunt's too. I know Lord Eddard – Uncle Ned – will be proud of you when Lady Catelyn tells him what happened.

"Does it trouble you that you saw him die? Are you having nightmares or . . ."

"No," his son spoke up. "I mean, it was not something I would want to see father, but no, it doesn't trouble me. He brought it on himself."

"Without doubt," he agreed, adding after a moment's pause: "You must know you haven't been yourself son."

Benjen willed himself not to break the silence but to wait out his son. He would surely say something if he just sat there and looked at him, wouldn't he? Or would he? Time seemed to pass so slowly. Then a flicker of hope emerged when Artos took a breath and his mouth began to form words.

"If . . . if you hadn't sent me to visit with Bran, he would be dead . . . and I only went because you told me to. I was afraid and I almost got my cousin killed," his son spoke slowly, struggling to keep his emotions down.

"What were you afraid of?"

"I didn't want to visit Bran because . . . I don't know . . . I was afraid to see him like that. I don't want to see my cousin die."

He turned his face away again, trying to hide what his father had already heard in his voice.

"Hmm, you might need to spend more time with a book in hand than a sword. I may need to speak to Maester Luwin about that. I had thought you brighter."

"What? Sorry, father, I don't understand?"

"Think about it Artos. If you had been visiting Bran the same as any of us you as likely as not wouldn't have been in his room at just that time. And if it wasn't so noticeable that you were staying away, I wouldn't have felt the need to send you. If anything, Bran is alive because you were afraid to see him lying there."

Artos looked back at him, somewhat stunned, clearly giving thought to his words.

"When I did send you to see him," Benjen pushed on. "Did you only go because you feared what I would say and for no other reason?"

"Um, no," his boy replied. "I knew it was the right thing to do."

"And when I told Alys she was brave for getting back on her horse when it threw her a moon or so before we came to Winterfell, what did you say?"

"I said she was scared, and you said you have to be scared to be brave."

Benjen nodded, and then gave a little smile as he saw Artos realise his point.

"Do you know why I had to talk to you son?"

"Because you're my father . . . and mother told you to."

"Ha," he felt relieved to hear the boy's humour return. "I won't argue with that. But I need you to be the young man I know when you visit with the Lords Bolton and Karstark, and even your uncle.

"You know well what I want of you, and you will have your cousins there. But you must remember that only you carry the Stark name. You are my son and you must be confident even if you do not feel it, just as you are brave even when scared. I believe in you or I would be not sending you. Do you understand?"

"Yes father. I won't let you down."

"I know you won't. You will serve this House well. You already have. Now, I don't do this often, not as often as I should, but join me to pray to the Old Gods for Bran, for your uncle and aunt, for the North."

In the quiet of the Godswood, two Starks knelt together and prayed, watched only by the old face of the heart tree.

* * *

A knock at the door interrupted Pate's long list of perceived problems that would arise in the event Winterfell had to call her banners. The man had never been to war – and nor had Benjen for that matter – but he seemed to have an understanding beyond what his learning would ever have suggested. And he professed to not even be particularly interested in shield and sword. He was just fascinated with numbers.

"Come," Benjen said. In truth, he welcomed the interruption. It was hard work following Pate's reasoning and then pondering the solutions, and they had been at it since he had seen off his son and nephews and their retinue at first light.

"There's a maid here with a message for you my lord," the guard said as he moved to the side to let a woman evidently wracked with nerves to enter.

"M'lord . . . m'lord Stark," she stumbled, clearly unused to taking messages. "I was bid to tell you m'lord that your nephew has come back."

"My nephew? Jon, Smalljon? What of my son?"

"No m'lord, no, Maester Luwin, he says to tell you that young Lord Bran is back to the land of the living. He's awake."

Concern was replaced by elation for Benjen, and Pate and all his numbers were quickly forgotten.

"My goodwoman, tell the Maester . . . No, no, don't mind. I will tell him myself. This is welcome news. Most welcome news."


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5 – Loyal Lords and Ladies Too**

The white and green merman on a blue-green field was the first banner to arrive at Winterfell of those that he had summoned.

Lord Wyman Manderly – known by a few other unflattering names referring to his hefty weight – was truly larger than life. He had responded earnestly to Benjen's invitation, bringing both his sons and granddaughters up the White Knife on barges. As much as they would have made good time on the river, the Lord of White Harbour's need for a litter must have made for a slower journey from there. Still, the Manderlys were a good two days early.

The feast that night was also the first that Bran had joined since he had awoken, making the evening, as Benjen said in his few short words of welcome, a celebration twice over. Wyman responded with a long-winded speech, ending with a not so subtle remark about how he hoped the young Stark men would enjoy meeting his granddaughters and sincerely regretting the absence of Artos.

Arrana had jumped on the inference as soon as they were alone in their chambers, demanding to know if her husband was planning to betroth their son too. His assurances that he was not nor would he without talking with her seemed to satisfy. That allowed him to then complain to her of Wyman's attempts to pry the reason he was called. While he told the older lord to wait for his peers to arrive, Arrana reasoned that perhaps having a forewarned friend at the table may help if there was any opposition to his thinking.

Morning brought his wife still abed, though waking only slightly after he and in a pleasant mood. Benjen had now become a firm believer that an absence from one's wife did the world of good. The servants timed their intrusion well and the couple were soon going about their day's activities – both evidently happy risers.

Time in his solar talking with Pate had become a morning ritual. The man who Benjen saw almost like the younger brother he never had was odd. There was no denying that. Pate's observation that it would have been better for Winterfell's kitchens if Lord Manderly had arrived last and not first would have been a jest from anyone else. Coming from Pate, it was meant in all seriousness. Benjen laughed regardless, which succeeded in confusing him.

He had known the steward's son since appointing his father to serve him at his own seat, prior to his ever having seen the place he would come to call home. Pate was clumsy, which had been most evident when they put a sword in his hand. He expressed little emotion and took everyone for the words they spoke and not their true meaning. But he was utterly tireless when given a challenge of the mind. He had exceeded their maester's knowledge of numbers at an early age. More and more he helped his father with Benjen's books. There was no doubt he would succeed his father – if Ned didn't steal him first.

Today, he was running Benjen through his thinking on the most efficient way to mobilise a Northern army and support it on a march to the Neck and beyond. Of course, he offered more than a few thoughts. There was a plan forming that would have purpose if – or when – Winterfell called her banners. Pate had come to understand what he had been told of soldiers, armies and marches. He had applied that knowledge – and Benjen's instructions – and was now giving solutions to the competing demands and problems that they anticipated. For a moment, Benjen became almost excited at the prospect of letting the ravens fly and seeing how it all worked in practice and not mere theory.

When Pate decided everything that needed to be said had been said, he stood and left the solar without a word. It was another of his strange habits of which his liege lord was, fortunately for him, rather accepting, if always bemused. That left Benjen free to ask a servant to fetch Lord Wyman.

Only when he heard the man wheezing from outside his door as he ascended the stairs did the acting Lord of Winterfell realise he may have been more considerate. Welcoming his guest and bidding him to take a seat, Benjen debated apologising but then decided it might come across as patronising. Sensing his hesitation or merely being impatient, Wyman spoke first.

"My Lord Benjen, this is by my reckoning the third time you have acted in your brother's stead," he said.

While it was more a statement than a question, Benjen realised Wyman was waiting on his answer.

"Aye, Lord Wyman, it is that. Robert's Rebellion was the first, and then it was the fault of Balon Greyjoy and now, well, we can blame our King."

"Hmm, I am sure the North is as appreciative of your service to our Lord Paramount as the King must be of Lord Eddard's service as Lord Hand. But my point, my lord, is that I do not recall any ravens in the past with messages written in your hand."

Again, not really a question, but a remark that was left suspended in the air; Wyman watching expectedly for a response and Benjen coming to think that this was the way of the man.

"Ravens have seldom flown at my command. This is true," he said. His thoughts continued while his voice was silent, and he reflected on the last that Maester Luwin had let fly. It was a note to Kings Landing taking word to Ned that Bran had awoke. That was the only raven he had sent without any doubt in his mind as to whether he was taking the right course. But Wyman did not need to know of his uncertainty.

"So," the man continued. "When I receive a raven from my lord's brother requesting my attendance with some haste in Winterfell only a short time after he was left to act in his stead, then naturally I wonder."

"Hence why you arrived two days early and have been eager for an answer ever since, my Lord Manderly?"

"Call me Wyman please, my lord."

Benjen found Wyman's smile contagious, and was amused by how unflappable the man was when called on his brazen curiosity. He did not know why, but he knew he had been too guarded with a lord Ned regarded as one of the most loyal to House Stark, and that such loyalty should not be taken for granted.

"Wyman," he said, with as respectful a tone as he could. "I do apologise for not being as forthcoming as I should. I know well the history of our houses. My father always said all the lords and ladies of the North are loyal; some more loyal than others."

This brought a smirk from Wyman as Benjen continued.

"More than loyal, my brother counts you as a friend. I hope to rely upon you too."

"I would be honoured if you did my lord," he said sincerely.

The Lord of White Harbour's brow furrowed as he listened to what had caused those ravens to fly.

"If the Lannisters killed Jon Arryn to usurp the throne, one way or another, then Ned would be a threat to their plans too, as would the King's brothers," Wyman mused. "I cannot think why they would try to kill young Lord Bran . . . perhaps the schemers feared he overheard something. He's awoken, but he cannot remember?"

"We are hopeful he will with time."

"In the meantime, I daresay you are . . . wary of the intrigues of the capital that your brother will be . . . Hmm, well there is nought you can do there. You fear war and you are seeking counsel, I assume, or do you have more in mind?"

"I would always have your counsel Wyman. But yes I have considered what may come. I may not have fought more than bandits, but I know what I know. If we must face the Lannisters, then we may find ourselves at a disadvantage. They may march through the Riverlands before we can call our banners. They will likely outnumber us in men and with their gold I expect they will have more horse. We may be forced to rely too much on the lords of the Riverlands and of the Vale, who fought with Ned before but whose interests may come to differ from ours'."

Wyman took a moment to consider his lord's words before nodding in agreement.

"All fair and good points," he said. "And you do not propose to sit and wait until your brother should call the North to march?"

"It is difficult," Benjen replied honestly. "If we overact do we provoke a war that we never sought? Do we cause disquiet among our lords?"

"You doubt your own authority or the authority of House Stark?"

"No, but I must take care to consider the thoughts of our lords and Robb; he's not far from an age and he is his father's heir. He will join us when the others arrive. As we speak he is watching over the training of more men – some for our guard and some for Moat Cailin."

"Ah ha, putting men in the old castle again is a wise move if I may say so. House Manderly could help in this."

"I was counting on it," Benjen said with a smile. "Winterfell will send a score of men at arms and twice that many archers and I intend to ask the Lords Cerwyn, Glover, Tallhart and, of course, my most eager Lord Wyman to contribute in equal measure."

"House Manderly is honoured to be the first to pledge to provide such men," Wyman said. "But have you thought my lord of who you will entrust with command? It will be a challenge too to make the best of the old works and to build up supplies."

His words left the younger man kicking himself while trying not to show it, but like a child caught out on a lie; it was written on his face. His new friend's mind was sharper than his body was round.

"My second son Wendel has no want of experience at arms and is of a good age. It is a short distance too from White Harbour to Moat Cailin – eight days afoot. I could send lumber, food, men to work on the walls, maybe even masons."

"If Wendel is agreeable, then I would be pleased to make him captain," Benjen responded, choosing his words carefully. "And House Stark would be grateful too for the help in this of House Manderly. You must understand though that this is not a permanent move but only for a time and only under my authority while I am, like you say, acting in my brother's stead."

"Oh but of course my lord, I would not presume otherwise."

Wyman's face remained bright, then a light flickered in his eyes and his whole impressive body seemed to shudder as a thought came to him like a hiccup. Benjen almost chuckled at the sight.

"Perhaps my house can help in another manner to try to dispel one of those advantages that our potential foes may hold over us," he said.

"And how might that be?"

* * *

Almost half a moon had passed before Benjen found his mind full of worries about another pending meeting with Northern nobles. Since Ned had left all he did was talk, talk and worry about talk. Several days earlier he had himself left on the heels of four lords and all the kin, guards and others that rode with them. They were good people, and he felt a little guilty to have greeted the day of their departure, but he had looked forward to enjoying one more night at a quieter, more homely Winterfell.

Arrana had been right about talking to Wyman first. If nothing else it had put him more at ease when they sat down with the others. But Wyman had shown his great worth with his own thoughts, some of which he cannily attributed to Benjen. The lords had readily given the commitments he had asked for, responded well to what he had shared of Pate's plans and offered even more help than he had sought. Wyman's idea had been kept between the two of them and while Benjen had agreed, he prayed it would not bring trouble later.

On that last night in Winterfell, in the privacy of their chambers, and not for the first time, he thanked his wife for her wise counsel. She enjoyed the moment and they both enjoyed the evening and again the morning. The memories were welcome ones for Benjen when his mind wandered in the saddle.

Quite deliberately, he had taken with him only a small guard of 10 men; albeit among those he considered his best. More, he had reasoned to himself, would perhaps convey a message that he did not entirely trust his hosts. Since he did not actually fear that his safety would be in danger in the castle that they would soon reach, he resolved to show his confidence with fewer men to attend on him than might have been expected given his current status.

Except for a night at Torren's Square, they slept around open fires with heavy furs and a watch kept throughout. Their lord had set a good pace and they came across more and more people tending the fields. Here and there they passed through a village and exchanged pleasantries with the local tenants in chief. While he sensed his men were looking forward to their arrival, a hot meal and a warm place to lay their heads, he was coming to have doubts.

The afternoon sun slowly slipped behind a dark cloud just as they gained their first glimpse in the distance of a large hill topped by a castle and surrounded by a town. Benjen realised others – others, but not he – might see that as a bad omen. One of his men remarked that the rain would be upon them before they arrived. Yet they remained dry all the way to the walls of Barrowton. The weather predictor endured a few jibes at his perceived failure as they reached the town gates. He got his own back when the skies suddenly opened just as they passed through. Damp but in good spirits, they proceeded to the gatehouse to Barrow Hall, the Stark banner gaining much attention from the town folk rushing to and thro. Servants waited to take their horses and most of his men went with them to seek shelter.

With but two chosen men by his side, Benjen looked to the three banners flying above them as they walked up the wide, wooden stairs to the keep. On the flanks were those of Houses Dustin and Ryswell, and in the middle, in pride of place, the personal arms of Lady Barbrey Dustin, quartering the other two. He lowered his gaze again while wiping away the drops that had fallen upon his forehead and ran down his face. They were escorted through the open gate to a grassed yard where a line waited in the rain. Every step toward them rook an age. Neither Arrana nor Maester Luwin had tried to talk him out of this, but right now it would not have taken much.

"Lord Stark," a woman dressed all in black boomed before he had reached her. "If we may, I would see that we honour our customs with haste."

Before he could reply a man hurried over with the bread and salt, but no drink to wash it down, as all watched on. He dutifully took a small mouthful of the offering.

"Thank you Lady Dustin."

"You know my father and brothers."

"It is good to see you here Lord Benjen," Lord Rodrik Ryswell said as he lowered his head and then extended his hand.

Benjen was still shaking the hands of Rodrik and his three sons – Roger, Rickard and Roose – when Barbrey spoke again.

"Servants will show you and your men to your rooms and let you know when the feast begins. We will observe a proper welcome then."

At that she turned and walked away, with most of her party soon following. The Ryswells, however, remained and offered polite conversation as they made their way into the keep, following the servants to the guest rooms.

He could see in Rodrik the same inquisitiveness that had infected Wyman. There was no hint, however, of there being anything out of place in his daughter's greeting. She may have observed the custom of guest right, but it was also customary to pronounce to a liege lord that one's castle was his. Ned did so when King Robert had arrived in Winterfell, and only several days earlier Lord Tallhart had taken pride in welcoming Benjen with the words that Torren's Square was his. Not so here.

Finally left alone in a room that was adequate but unlikely the most comfortable of those that Barrow Hall offered, Benjen reflected on Barbrey's lack of warmth. He knew he should not have been surprised. The rain had given her an excuse to be as curt as she desired. It did not bode well.

Later, Barbrey greeted his arrival appropriately at the high table but had arranged for the eldest of her brothers to speak on her behalf in welcoming Benjen and the local minor lords and barrow knights who shared in the feast. When their plates were taken away, Rodrik asked if they should retire to Barbrey's solar. The look in her eyes as they waited on his answer showed him that she very much wanted to know why he had come. There was disappointment evident too when he replied that it had been a long day and it would be best to talk after a good rest.

* * *

Benjen had been awake for a while when a servant entered with water for him to wash and an invitation from Lady Dustin to break his fast with her and Lord Ryswell in her solar. It was a battle of wills and he knew immediately he would lay down his arms and give her what she wanted. He hoped it would meet with her approval.

They had him where they wanted him, but still neither father or daughter broached the subject of what had brought Benjen to Barrow Hall, why he had requested Lady Barbrey's hospitality and Lord Rodrik's attendance. What he wanted of his more than healthy serving safely in his belly, he decided it would do no good to delay.

"My lady, my lord, this is a delicate manner and I would ask for your forbearance."

They nodded in unison.

"My brother has again charged with me with his responsibilities. This time, he has not marched to war with the lords of every Northern house by his side. I imagine he might even now prefer that to be so."

The joke brought only a dutiful smile from Rodrik and no reaction from Barbrey.

"It is for the King to decide how long my brother shall serve as his Hand and it was not lost on either of us that this could be some time.

"For this reason, I have decided that I cannot merely leave certain matters be but that it is my duty to House Stark and to the North to see that those houses sworn to us are at peace and secure, within and without."

"My lord, if you are trying to say that Lord Ryswell or I are . . ."

"Lady Barbrey I have, I assure you, only kind words. No, the matter of which I believe needs a resolution is your heir. I have consulted our maester and . . ."

The older woman near leapt from her seat to interrupt him with venom in her voice.

"So one brother takes my husband from me and now the other would have designs on my seat before I am gone? What did I ever do to House Stark?"

"Barbrey, please, that was poorly said," Rodrik quietly chastised.

Benjen had heard the stories that their eldest brother had taken something else of Barbrey's but expected he would likely have need of armour if that were mentioned.

"My lady, I bear you no malice and I well understand your grief, but I too lost family in the war," he said. "A father, a brother, a sister . . ."

"A sister, yes, who rests in your crypt at Winterfell and where rests my husband? Your brother returned only a horse to me. A horse."

While Benjen took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, he noted Rodrik made no further attempt to calm his daughter. He was on his own here.

"Aye," he said. "It is as you say – my sister's bones rest in our crypt and your husband's are far away."

Pausing, he thought on his wife's words on the night she had arrived in Winterfell.

"A woman, wiser than I, told me only a moon past that my brother was not without his faults. He is no different in that to any of us.

"My brother wronged you Lady Barbrey. I can see that. Perhaps in his grief for our sister and all that we had lost he did not see what the families of the men who fell by his side would have wanted. Ned regrets the loss of your husband and all those others, and I know well it is a heavy burden he carries. But still you were wronged."

Standing from his chair, he took a moment to look down into her eyes before lowering himself to one knee on a patch of carpet between them.

"Lady Dustin, on behalf of House Stark, I apologise for the disrespect shown to you and to your house. I beg your forgiveness."

Only silence greeted his words as he returned to his feet. Barbrey nodded – he thought sincerely – and waved to his chair, while her father's eyebrows remained raised at the gesture for a few moments. It was he who spoke again first.

"Well, my lord, I am sure my daughter appreciates your words," Rodrik began. "We would both wish to know who you . . . who you suggest should be her heir."

"Very well," Benjen replied. "My maester came to the conclusion that House Ryswell would have as good a claim as any."

This brought a welcome look from the older lord.

"It is a shame that there are no Dustins with as good a claim, but it is what it is. I would propose that our houses recognise Lord Rickard Ryswell as the heir to Barrow Hall and all its lands.

"Further, I propose to once again join our houses by betrothing my daughter Alys to Rickard, with your agreement of course Lord Rodrik. Alys is not yet of age, and there is an age difference I know, but Rickard is unwed, unless I am very much mistaken, and Alys is much like her mother, an old head on young shoulders as they say. Until they are wed, I would have my daughter become your ward Lady Barbary so she may learn from you of your seat."

His proposal stunned the father and daughter. A wide-eyed Barbary seemed to have been snapped out of her melancholy, while Rodrik was speechless for a moment. Before they tried to get a word in Benjen made one last point.

"For the time of their betrothal, and while I am acting as Lord of Winterfell, I would also take Rickard into my service. I have need of a lord of his age and believe he would serve well."

"This is unexpected my lord," Rodrik said. "I will not pretend that I had not hoped my sons and future grandsons would succeed both myself and my daughter and that the Barrowlands and the Rills would be as one under House Ryswell. A betrothal of a lady of House Stark does, I suppose . . . Well, yes, it most certainly would demonstrate that Rickard would be the rightful heir. There is much merit too in what you propose for the betrothed couple. It would be an honour for my son to serve you. But is it not fair to ask if Lord Stark knows of this?"

"It is, and I will tell you honestly that I have not spoken to my brother on this matter. But I would also tell you that he made clear to all that I was to act in his stead while he was away from the North. I do not doubt that I can betroth my own daughter and recognise a rightful heir. But if this concerns you, I suggest that we three could agree on this arrangement while waiting on my brother to give his consent."

"I do not think that necessary," Barbrey finally spoke. "If your brother should wish to go against you, well that would be a problem for House Stark, would it not? But he has placed his trust in you so we should do the same."

Her meaning was entirely transparent and Benjen wondered if she would relish the embarrassment that a broken betrothal would cause, not to mention the affront that both she and her father would be able to claim. Still, he was confident Ned would have no complaint, especially when he told of Barbrey's bitterness towards him and their house. On the other hand, he was beginning to wonder what he might be inflicting upon his daughter. For now, he could only agree with the woman.

A deal reached, Rodrik called for the best wine in Barbrey's stores to celebrate. He asked for and received the honour of speaking to his son and suggested that Rickard could accompany Benjen back to Winterfell immediately.

Wine in hand, Barbrey studied him closely. She asked a few polite questions of his daughter. He answered without exaggeration. He had no wish to give an impression of Alys that she could not live up to. When they finally left her solar to inspect horses that Benjen had expressed interest in, he had the feeling that she was warming to him, if only slightly. He took that as a hard-won victory.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6 – Many Wings, Many Words**

Three ravens travelled with Artos and his cousins in a little wicker cage on their long ride. The first flew from the Dreadfort, the next from the walls of Karhold and the last, lonely bird took to the air at the Last Hearth. One by one they carried messages to Winterfell. The few short words were near identical and exactly as instructed.

On his return from Barrowton, Benjen was presented with the first two among no fewer than 10 notes delivered by ravens during his absence. From near and far they had come, though in truth almost anywhere was far from Winterfell. Those from his son were on top. Maester Luwin must have decided the order, for it was he who had handed them to the saddle-sore lord. There was the date and then a single sentence – "Shared bread and salt with Lord . . . who well understands what you ask of him" – followed by his son's name, all written in his hand.

The third message from Artos had arrived while he broke his fast several mornings later. He handed the note immediately to Arrana who smiled broadly.

"They will be on the Kings Road by now, travelling south," he told her.

"He says so little," she observed, looking again at the paper.

"Enough," Benjen said. "I had him add the word 'well' if all was indeed well and he did with all three ravens. It was a trifling idea but it gives comfort that their journey was as we had hoped. We will know more when they return."

Arrana's face changed to show the cheeky side that Benjen knew so well.

"Look at my lord husband," she cooed. "Look how he plays his little games with all the guile of a courtier of Kings Landing."

"You may laugh my lady," he replied. "But any guile I have I owe to you."

Her eyes were drawn again to their son's message and a thought struck her.

"Will you let him visit Alys? It would please them both."

"And you. It would please you too."

"And I," she admitted. "You know I do recall my husband promising to do all he can to please me, and he does come from an honourable family, it must be said."

"Well," he began, mocking a pose of deep consideration. "The horses I agreed to buy from Lady Dustin should soon be ready. Perhaps I should send an escort to see that they arrive safely."

"That would be wise husband, very wise."

"Lord Artos will be as accustomed as a Ryswell to the saddle before too long, my lord and lady," a cheerful voice intruded in their moment.

"A good morning to you Rickard," Arrana greeted him warmly, as Benjen acknowledged his presence with his customary nod.

"We may not be Ryswells of the Rills but we Starks do know our way around a horse," he told his future good-son.

"Just as well my lord as we have yours' saddled and the men are ready."

"Then let us not keep them waiting."

* * *

They rode through Winter Town and continued south, veering away from the Kings Road and towards the western arm of the White Knife. While his men talked here and there, Benjen preferred to be alone with his thoughts for the most part. Rickard had learned of his ways and let him be.

His daughter's betrothed had impressed Benjen, though it was hard to say what he had expected from him. Older than Robb and Theon, but still somewhat their age, the younger men certainly seemed to hold him with respect. It had only been a matter of days but Rickard had taken well to his first job of training the young lords in fighting on horseback. For hours their horses' hooves had churned a fallow field outside the castle. Straw figures were speared a hundred times over.

On their first day in Winterfell, Desmond had brought to Benjen a guardsman that Ned had sent back. The man told the story of how he and three others had been entrusted with returning Lady, Sansa's direwolf. It was a shock to hear that Ned himself had killed the animal. Even more unsettling was when they learned he had done so on the King's orders. It seemed there had been an ugly row involving Joffrey, Ned's girls and Arya's direwolf. Lady had been ordered killed as some sort of act of retribution to appease the Queen. Benjen asked question after question. Robb chimed in here and there, having heard the story before. But it was Rickard who seemed to make the most sense of it all.

"My lords," he had said. "I think what this tells us is that the Queen . . . She's a cunt."

Benjen had been a little reassured by other messages Luwin had waiting for him. His brother and nieces had arrived safely in Kings Landing. They were grateful for word of Bran, Ned wrote. He said also how he had met a small party of Northerners near Duskendale who were now heading home by the Kings Road. He was relieved to read this – if mostly for the sake of his nephews who missed their mother. There had been another message from Kings Landing about a tourney in honour of the new Hand. That was perhaps a good sign too, though he knew Ned would not have been in favour of the obscene purses on offer.

Swaying gently in the saddle, his mind remained on Ned and he wondered what he would have made of Catelyn and the news she had taken to him in person. Would he be angry with him for his having let her go? There was little use worrying about that, he realised. There was more at stake. Would the finger be pointed for the murder of Jon Arryn and the attempt on Bran's life? "Interesting times were upon them," Wyman Manderly had said. He would prefer they were not.

The sun was directly above them when they reached the village. They brought their horses to a slow walk and continued through the open way among the hovels. Children ran to and thro while women and older men stopped to look.

"Lord Stark," one balding, grey-beard called. "If you're looking for your nephew you will find him beyond those trees. That's where they made their camp. They've been marchin' all morning. Those who aren't with the Ironborn lord, I mean."

Benjen followed the man's outstretched arm and soon spied the drab colours and outlines of tents through holes in the foliage.

"Thank you my good man," he said, giving a respectful nod before beginning to turn his mount.

"M'lord," the man called again. "Are we going to war?"

Benjen studied him and then looked again to the trees he had pointed out. As he moved his eyes from one to the other he knew he had an audience.

"You have kin over there with my nephew?"

"Yes, m'lord, my grandson. His father, my son . . . they say he fell at the Ruby Ford where King Robert won his crown. His mother died when he was born, she did. My grandson is all I have. He's a good boy m'lord."

"I am sure he is," he replied. Then, drawing a great breath and raising his head, he spoke to all who had gathered around.

"When my brother bid me to act as your Lord while he is serving the King, I did not gain sight of what is to come. Only the Old Gods can see our fates, but they know well my prayers.

"If a lord does not prepare for winter then I say to you he is not worthy of his people. And I say too that a lord would be no more worthy if he does not ready for war but merely wishes it never comes.

"Is this not true my good people?"

There were murmurs of agreement and nods.

"Be proud of your men. They are training to be true men of the North like their fathers before them. And fear not, they will be home at your hearths on the morrow."

He looked around the gathering; his words hanging in the air. It was the old man who broke the silence.

"Thank you m'lord," he said. Others joined in, adding kind and respectful words, and Benjen was glad of it, but it was the bold grandfather he cared about most. His heart warmed at having given him a measure of reassurance.

Rickard waited until they were halfway to the tents and out of hearing of those behind.

"That was well spoken my lord," he said delicately.

"My brother always said it is these people who suffer most in war Rickard," Benjen said. "We do well to remember that."

"Yes my lord."

Once through the trees they passed the lines of deserted tents. Now in the open they could see on the ground beyond a single mass of men with spears. A handful of men stood beside their horses, watching from a small rise to the side. On a neighbouring ground a line of men sent arrows at targets a hundred yards or more away.

As they approached a cry went out that brought the spearmen to a stop and Benjen too pulled his horse up. There must have been near half a thousand men standing together in a square, their spears pointing to the sky. At another shouted order every man turned to his right and then the first few ranks of those who now found themselves at the front slowly lowered their points. A further order and they moved forwards, thrusting their weapons at an imaginary enemy with a loud chorus of aggression. That voice cried out again and the men stopped as one, spears were raised and this time their butts were rested on the ground.

The watchers, Benjen realised, had mounted their horses and walked them over to the men who, conveniently, now faced in their direction. In the lead, he could see, was Robb, his direwolf wandering by the side of his horse. His nephew was speaking, but he could not make out the words. Whatever he was saying it was to the point and he was soon done. Abruptly the men began wandering apart or milling about talking. A moment later Robb saw him and made his way over.

"Uncle, we were not expecting you until tomorrow."

"Which is why I am here today," he said wryly. "From what we saw, you seem to be doing well. Have you had any troubles?"

"No, no troubles. Some of the men fought with father against the Ironborn or the Targaryens or both, or so they say. I tell each one I shall look to them to set an example. The younger men seem to be enjoying themselves. I guess it makes a change from what they do every other day."

"So it would, and what of Theon? I trust you have been recording your numbers and what they lack for?"

"Of course uncle, Pate will get his numbers and the smiths from around here will have much work to do. Theon has the archers in hand. I'm told he's hard but fair."

"That's good, and it's good to hear he's earning our coin."

"The girls of the Smoking Log will be pleased to hear of it too," Rickard remarked.

"And what do you know of the girls of the Smoking Log my Lord Rickard?"

"Ah, um, my lord, I have not . . . I would not bring dishonour . . . ," the man stumbled.

"Rather than have you finish that sentence," Benjen interrupted. "I will give you the advice my good brother offered before I was wed to his sister."

A somewhat relieved Rickard nodded, while Robb's smirk never left his face.

"First, do not make a promise you cannot keep; not to anyone, but especially not to your wife. And, second, respect her in your house and to your children."

The younger men continued to look to him, taking in his words and waiting for more.

"That's it," he said. "Well, he had a lot more to say about what would occur if I wronged her, but I would spare you such thoughts. They kept me awake at night for long enough as it was."

"You have my thanks my lord," Rickard said. "I hope . . . I mean to say, I will try to be the man you would have for your daughter."

"Now that was well spoken. Come, my belly grumbles."

* * *

"I am Artos Stark, son of Benjen Stark, acting Lord of Winterfell and of the North."

"Ha! The boy speaks," the big, bald man answered. "And a Stark, he says. We'll have your horse, your purse and your sword."

"And then you'll kill me."

Artos was surprised himself when the words came out of his mouth, and with those before him at a loss for what to say, he found the courage to speak again.

"So perhaps not," he said, standing more upright, his hand moving to grasp his sword. "What we'll do instead is have you all throw your weapons over there and then you can lead us back out on to the Kings Road."

"I say we cut his cock off and put it in his mouth," the shorter woman menaced.

The haggard man and the taller woman were speaking too, but Artos was not interested in their words. He was watching, thinking. Noise and time, he thought. He needed enough of a racket to bring the others and the time for them to come. With a deep breath he drew his sword and raised it above his head with both hands in a single motion.

"Sad that you chose to lose your heads," he said, eyes moving from side to side, looking for their reactions to his sudden move.

The taller woman was telling him to lower his sword; promising that he would live if he did. The other woman was speaking again, and so was the big man with the shiny head. But it was the man furthest to his left who drew his attention; his hand was reaching across his shoulder for an axe strapped to his back.

Turning sharply on his heels, Artos ran several steps to his left. Just as suddenly he stopped and turned back, swinging his sword as he did in a wide arc. The man with the axe had moved to give chase, as he had hoped he would, and was now caught in the path of his blade. It was a surprise at how little force he felt when it cut the man's neck. But this was no blunt sword against strong armour. No, blood never sprayed so freely in the yard.

The others were bunched up behind the fallen man and he went toward them. A spear thrust at his head and he parried it away at the very last second, stepping to his right and slashing at the man who was trying to get behind him from that side. This time he felt it more in his hands as his sword tore through ragged clothes and the flesh beneath.

He needed space now so he backed away quickly, trying to work out his next move. He was vaguely aware of the screaming of the man he had gutted and hoped it would soon bring the help he needed.

There were three of them moving wearily towards him. The tall woman was the one with the spear that had nearly sliced his face. She was in the middle and the men in black were on either side, both holding swords. The other woman, he saw, had backed away. The odds against him had halved but he had never felt so threatened.

"You're fucked now boy," the bald man said and Artos did not reply. He could hear the man still moaning behind them and grimaced at the thought of his own death.

Trying to catch his breath, he took up a stance and waited. He readied to dart to one side or the other again, knowing it was his only chance. As if reading his mind the woman with the spear held it back in a crouch, poised to lunge as soon as he moved. The men were closing in; the woman back slightly but keeping pace.

He chose the gaunt man, reasoning he was on the right and that they might think he favoured his left after his initial attack, but knowing the truth that he was simply more fearful of what the big man could do with his heftier sword.

Resolved again to act, he slowly put his weight forward, looking to the left to try to make his adversaries guess wrong. Then his chosen man went down; a familiar white beast atop him. Mid-motion, Artos reacted without thought, whirling around to his left and slashing across the big man's face.

When he stopped he saw in an instant that the man had dropped his sword and was clutching his face, blood streaming between his fingers. His screams almost drowned out the cries of the other man, down on the ground frantically calling for the woman to spear the great wolf that was devouring him. But she was turning her back to them. Barely having paused, Artos thrust his sword into the big man, angling it upwards into his chest and turning his screams into a grunt and a gurgle.

The man's legs collapsed beneath him and Artos looked up just in time to see the smaller woman fall too as a great sword swung down from a horse. In a flurry of hooves, the woman with the spear was knocked to the ground, and the mauled man made no more sound as the wolf kept on gnawing.

The son of Benjen Stark pulled his sword free and walked with a purpose. The woman was on her knees, her back to him and the spear by her side. Someone had dropped from their saddle with a heavy thud and was striding towards them. She was speaking. Artos swung. Her head half bounced, half rolled, before coming to a stop. He looked down to see her lifeless eyes staring back at him.

* * *

"Aye the blood of the Umbers runs strong in the lad," Greatjon Umber was saying again as Benjen closed the door behind them.

"You can jape now Jon but the Old Gods would not have saved you if anything had happened to my boy," Arrana fumed. "Where were you?"

Seeing the fearsome man cowering from his wife would ordinarily have amused Benjen no end yet he shared her fears of what could have been, and now was the time to demand answers.

The Greatjon mumbled at first before telling the tale of how his own sword had cleaved one of the wildlings in two. When that failed to impress he added that no one could have expected to come across a party of Night's Watch deserters and wildlings so far south.

"Why have you come to Winterfell, Lord Umber?"

The formal address as much as the question caught his good brother off-guard and he gaped at the two of them before finding his voice again.

"You send your son to my seat to talk of war," he said. "I thought the counsel of a lord who has seen war would be of use to you, Lord Stark."

"And how many men would you counsel my husband to fight alone in the woods?"

"Oh enough sister," the Greatjon thundered. "You would do better to ask the men of your own household where they were than to lay the blame at my feet. And what is all of this? Have you not trained the boy to swing a sword? We should be drinking with the lad, not whining like old women."

The sound of a knock on the solar door brought some relief to the tension in the air.

"Come," an angry Arrana called.

Maester Luwin entered, clearly taken aback and studiously avoiding the glare of the acting lord's wife.

"Lord Stark, a raven," he said, handing the message over.

"Dark wings, dark words," the Greatjon intoned.

"You'll get more than dark words," his sister hissed.

"Catelyn," Benjen said, ending the row. "She's in Riverrun. She bids that we seize the Imp – Tyrion Lannister; says he was behind the attempt on Bran's life."

"My lord, it is surely too late for that," Luwin offered. "He was here a moon past now. Lady Catelyn would be closer to him than we, and he may even be beyond the Riverlands' reach."

"Hmm, and I cannot say if I would do as she asks of us in any case."

Arrana raised her eyebrows inquisitively.

"Think on it: What sense does it make that the Lannister lord would design a saddle for Bran to ride again? Why would he care if he had tried to have the boy killed?"

"I would say guilt, but I didn't see it," she admitted. "You would think that if he had been the one responsible he would have left with the King, not gone north on some jaunt of fancy to the Wall, only to return here and stay not one but two nights."

"No, he did not strike me as a fool," Benjen agreed. "Much the opposite."

"My lord, my lady," Luwin said. "I am sure Lady Catelyn has her reasons to suspect Lord Tyrion."

"Aye and I would never trust a Lannister," the Greatjon joined in. "Or a dwarf."

"Well, we best hope she shared all that she knows with Ned and that my brother can find the truth."

* * *

The days passed by and the arrival of a raven or two became almost routine.

Few told of reason for concern but the shadow of war did not abate either. Lords across the North wrote to tell of some minor thing or another, with their messages no doubt motivated more by a wish for news in return. One sent a bird asking for exactly that, and received no reply for he should have known better.

A cryptic message from White Harbour telling Benjen that their deliveries had been successful brought an odd look from Luwin but the maester knew not to ask.

When his good brother had been told of all that had the Starks worried he counselled Benjen to call the banners and to march to stand behind Ned and confront the Lannisters. Arrana had replied that his counsel was best reserved for war because that was all his advice would bring.

After a few late nights in which much ale and wine was consumed, brother and sister had, if not mended recent wounds, allowed them to be forgotten. Besides, it was hard for his wife to remain aggrieved when her son was fit and well.

Benjen had taken the time to talk to Artos of what had occurred in the woods. He was reflective on having sent others to their deaths, but not in what his father judged to be an unhealthy manner. The lad had matured beyond his years, which made him proud but also feel a little guilty for he was at least somewhat responsible.

He had planned to send Artos and Rickard to Barrowton, but Barbrey Dustin had wasted no time in sending the horses he had agreed to buy. Without such an excuse he judged more time needed to pass before he could send them to visit Alys.

Winterfell's stables were full again. The guard stronger than before Ned had left – at least in numbers – and the Greatjon was helping to train those who were new. There was an unfortunate side-effect of his assistance with Luwin being called upon a little too often to treat injuries in the training yard.

Men from Deepwood Motte and Torrhen's Square passed through on their way to Moat Cailin. Those from the Stark lands and from Castle Cerwyn and White Harbour had been there for a time already. Ser Wendel had sent word of his arrival there and of their work. More ravens.

There were few enough from Kings Landing though. Sansa had written once to her mother and brothers. It read almost like some fanciful tale; giving no hint as to what was truly happening in the muck of the capital.

The uncertainty had Benjen doubting himself. He dreamt of Ned returning to Winterfell and laughing at his brother jumping at shadows. He gained reassurance from Arrana, who said it was better to be thought too cautious than to be caught unprepared.

Sometimes, during the day, ravens could be seen arriving at Winterfell. They would fly around before coming to rest in the rookery above the Maester's Turret. Today, none saw the bird come but Luwin, who retrieved the message from its leg.

Benjen was with his son, his nephews and Theon, waiting to watch the Greatjon and Desmond spar with swords. His captain had felled his good brother once and the latter had demanded a rematch, which had drawn the spectators.

The maester's chains clanged together and he panted as he hurried towards them, clutching a note in his outstretched hand, while holding his robe with the other.

"My lord," Luwin said. "A raven. Grave news."

All around him there was quiet. He read it twice. His blood boiled. He felt his heart skip a beat. But he did not hesitate.

"Call the banners."


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7 – Marching to War**

"Did they think we had forgotten the last time a Stark was summoned to Kings Landing? Did they think us fools?"

Benjen Stark paced back and forth in the chambers he shared with his wife.

"The Targaryen king demanded my father ride to the Red Keep to _answer_ for my eldest brother. He knew the bastard was mad; he must have. Don't tell me he didn't wish he had called the banners when he was being roasted alive."

Arrana sat on their bed, her lips still, her hands together in her lap, only her eyes moved as they followed her raging husband.

"Now this boy king sends for me and Robb, while he has my brother in his dungeons and tells bare-faced lies about why he is there. What did they think I would do? Did they expect us to bring our own chopping block on which to rest our heads?

"Damn them. Damn them all. I wanted peace Arrana. I prayed for it, I did, the Old Gods know it – if they're even listening, and now I have called the North to war."

He stopped, but did not look at her. His hands were tight on his head as if they were needed to keep it from shattering from the inside out. He turned to her; his arms flopping by his side.

"Say something woman. When are you ever short of a word?"

"Why do you doubt yourself now Benjen Stark?"

"What? What do you mean?"

She sighed and shook her head in apparent frustration.

"Listen to yourself husband. You're not trying to convince me, so who are you trying to convince?"

Arrana continued before he could answer.

"I was on the bridge, you know, looking out the window when I saw Luwin approach you with that message. You did not even wait to share the words. You told him to call the banners and sent him scurrying back to his tower to set those ravens free.

"I did not – could not have known what it said. But I knew you were right. Everyone in that yard knew it. You were right then. What has changed?"

He slumped down on the bed beside her.

"I was angry," he said. "I did not think."

"And yet all I have heard is why you were right," she said.

"You were right to say they lied. Who would believe that Ned would usurp the throne? He was only in Kings Landing because he wanted to find the truth about Jon Arryn's death. You told me he would have refused Robert if not for Catelyn telling him to go. They expect us to believe he tried to take the throne with, what, half a hundred swords?

"Why so little in that message too? How did King Robert die? What of his brothers? What of your nieces? If they have hostages, would they not be mentioned?

"You were right to fear the fate of your father and your brother. Now I tell you this: The Lannisters behind the boy king sent this message because they fear the North; they fear you. And well they should because the lion will cower before the wolf."

"Brave words, my lady, brave words," Benjen answered. "But do you not worry for what war will bring? Do you not fear for our people; our kin?"

"Ah, so it is that kind heart that I love you for that I must blame then," she said, her hands grasping for both of his and her face turning to look into his eyes.

"We are born to suffer husband. You are talking to a woman who has birthed you two dead babes. We don't need a war to grieve.

"I know you will take our son. He is a man now, younger than we would have wanted, but it does not make it less so. I know too that you will do all that you can for him, for all our kin and for every man of the North."

"I will be responsible . . ."

"Yes you will, for bringing your brother home, for keeping the North safe, for humbling the lion. All of these things you will be responsible for, Lord Stark."

"Your confidence may be misplaced Lady Stark," he replied. "Are you forgetting I have never before led men to war? Your brother has reminded me of that already. He offered to take the army south."

"If I was not sure you had already told that oaf to remember his place I would be having words with him," she said. "You may doubt yourself to me, but do not think that I share your doubts and speak of them no more.

"You are a Stark and winter is coming."

* * *

"Uncle, when will the lords answer our call? When will we march?"

Robb had not observed the customary courtesies, but that mattered not to his uncle for the moment. He knew Ned's son was impatient; impatient for news, impatient for action. He felt much the same, but had long resigned himself to the realities of their circumstances.

Five days had passed since he had called the banners. Some lords had answered with ravens of their own. Others did not, but word was never sought. It was expected that all would come.

Lord Medger Cerwyn had arrived in Winterfell on the fourth day with his daughter Jonelle and a small guard. The Greatjon muttered about the man seeking a favourable betrothal at such a time. Benjen paid it no heed.

The Great Hall was cleared in the morning and almost a score of men – all trusted and true – gathered around two tables. They stood and quietened their chatter when Benjen entered, Desmond resolute behind him. He sat down and signalled the others to do likewise, but Robb remained standing.

Only the Greatjon seemed to react to the young man's small act of impertinence with a frown. Robb's words hung in the air. All eyes were on Benjen.

"We shall start there then," he said. He had expected the question, expected too that his nephew would not like the answer, so he chose another to talk.

"Pate, you are our man of numbers. Tell Lord Robb when we will march and why."

There were murmurs at his asking a steward's son to speak, but neither Benjen nor Pate paid them any mind. The latter had never cared for what others thought. He did not decide consciously not to care; it just never occurred to him that he should.

"Well my lords you have to start with Karhold because it's the farthest seat from Winterfell," he said.

"Two-hundred leagues is a long march. I was told to figure six leagues a day over such a distance. Allowing several days for the lord to gather his men, we expect to see the Karstark banners in one month and two-thirds of another."

Robb jumped to his feet.

"That's almost two turns of the moon from now!"

"Aye, that is the day I wrote for the maester on the ravens we sent," Pate responded.

"We said the same to all the lords we expect to come to Winterfell. Come by then and not more than five days before, they were told. If they're too early we'll have to feed them while they sit around waiting."

Benjen could see his nephew becoming more agitated and rose to intervene.

"My lords, my good men, I want as much as any of you to march with haste, but we need as strong an army as we can gather and we need to keep it strong on the long journey we must endure," he said.

"We considered leaving the Karstarks behind," Pate continued unasked. "But it would save few enough days to matter. It will take more than another month to reach the Twins in the Riverlands and who knows how far you must march beyond there."

Robb and the younger men looked almost forlorn, while Pate wore his normal emotionless expression. Benjen had not left his feet. He stared at his numbers man until he got the hint and sat down.

"Right, it should be no surprise that we have much marching ahead of us," he said.

"But there is much to do still before we begin and I will not have us waste this time.

"Robb, Theon, I would have you travel around our estates again. As before, we will gather our own men at four villages for five days each in turn. You will inspect them and train, harder than before. They may then go home again until it is time to march.

"I expect Lord Cerwyn will make good use of this time too on his own lands."

The man nodded as he was expected to do, and Benjen caught the Greatjon smiling.

"Lord Umber will take horse to Moat Cailin. Artos, Jon you will go with him," he pressed on.

"Between here and there, we will be preparing camps every two days' march, with cattle ready at each for the slaughter so that our men will be well fed. You are to inspect the work and see that our route and Moat Cailin are secure.

"You know that we have been planning for this. Not that we wanted it to come to pass mind, but come to pass it has.

"I know you will all do your duties to House Stark and that is all I – and my brother – would ever ask."

They stood, and Benjen strode from the Great Hall, feeling a growing confidence, but realising to his own amusement that he did not know where he was headed.

* * *

Winterfell was busy the following morning. People were rushing to and thro, many preparing to leave on tasks that he had assigned. There was order though, and calm, certain voices.

Walking out into the yard in his armour, Benjen was immediately aware of the looks that came his way. He had not trained while at Winterfell. With his helm in one hand and a training sword in the other, he strolled over to his waiting adversary.

Robb gave a big grin when he saw him, but it was clear to Benjen the lad was a little nervous. Artos, Jon and Theon were standing to the side, ready to watch the duo spar, and Desmond was walking with him. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted the Greatjon and the Cerwyns there too, and others were gathering.

Benjen had suggested they train together the night before, intending it to seem like a goodwill offering after first having some stern words with his nephew. He had made clear that the two could not give even a hint of division to the Northern lords. Robb was the heir, but Benjen was his senior and the man entrusted by his father to lead the North. He needed to respect that.

"Now go easy on me, I'm a little rusty," Benjen said, giving Desmond a wink as he handed him his sword to hold while he fiddled with his helm.

"Getting old uncle?"

There were muted laughs at the cheeky remark, but he was unfussed as he took his sword and advanced on the younger man, who hastily lowered his visor. He stopped just beyond arm's reach and took up a side-on stance. Robb had readied himself, his body tensed, and now waiting for an attack that did not come, he seemed indecisive.

A moment passed and then, with a swish of his sword, his nephew stepped forward quickly and swung a blow aimed at his nearer left shoulder. Benjen pivoted on his left foot, swinging his own sword hard against the other so that the force knocked his opponent off balance. Before any heard the "clang" of their steel meeting he had kicked his right foot up under the other's left knee and sent him flying onto his back.

There were hoots from their spectators but he did not react. He simply changed his sword to his left hand and walked over, offering his right to help Robb up.

Back on their feet, the two circled each other, making occasional attacks but not committing too far. After a while Robb, growing in confidence, became less hesitant and tried to catch his uncle off guard with fast sword movements. His technique was good, but Benjen was the equal to it and seemed to all watching to be untroubled.

Robb paused for a few seconds to catch his breath and Benjen launched his own attack. Swinging with much more force than before and advancing as he did, he was beating his nephew back. It wasn't one blow that did it, but the outcome was inevitable. A backwards misstep saw the younger man on his backside and a blunt sword pointed at his throat soon after.

"I yield," he said.

Again he passed his sword to his left hand and held out his other. This time though he then removed his helm.

"Well fought Robb. A few more years and you might have my measure."

Turning his back to the yard, he was walking toward the armoury when he found himself face to face with his wife, who was holding a happy Serena.

"I'm a little sweaty I'm afraid," he told them.

"That you are husband," Arrana said in good humour. "I hope it is clear now which wolf leads this pack."

He leaned closer and whispered his reply to his daughter: "Aaahoo!"

* * *

His mind wavered between wishing the days away and regretting the setting sun. There was so much to do, but there was a need for urgency too. Three ravens from Riverrun had made the latter clear.

Catelyn wrote first with the entirely unnecessary demand that he call the banners. Evidently, her father had also received a threatening message from the boy king. Then her brother Edmure wrote to warn that the Lannisters were massing at the Golden Tooth. The third was in Catelyn's hand. Fighting had begun. The Riverlands were being invaded.

Benjen did not think he was imagining a tone in her writing, and though he would not say as much to Robb, he was content for Catelyn to remain at Riverrun. Perhaps, he thought to himself every now and then, that he was too harsh on her, but all the same he did not need any more worries.

He had not replied to Catelyn's first message, but he did to the next two. He wrote to Edmure to assure him that the North would march soon and to suggest that the Riverlands avoid battle until they could join their forces. Then, after his good sister's last message, Benjen reiterated that help would soon be on its way and asked her to ensure her brother held their men back from the field.

Every day he talked with Pate. Much was being done to prepare for the arrival of men from across the North, and for their march south, and his steward's son knew every detail. More than that, he was responsible for how many men, cattle and wagons were sent where and when. Few knew it because the orders came from others, but it was Pate who was behind the planning. If only he had some knowledge about fighting battles, Benjen thought ruefully, but then he had to do some of the thinking for himself.

There was a sombre mood in Winterfell. News of what had befallen Ned and the gathering clouds of war were reason enough for that. The household and particularly those guards who had served since before his brother left for Kings Landing were worried about their brothers in arms. In some cases they were truly brothers. There was no word of those men or any others who went south. No news of his nieces either, only Ned, in a dungeon in the Red Keep.

Rickon and Serena provided some cheerful moments in the castle that were sorely needed by their uncle and father. They played happily together for the most part. Their occasional spats were even reason for mirth. To see Bran up and about was heart-warming too. What was odd was seeing him on horseback. A kid who could not walk – and likely would never again – was riding a horse. But more than that, he was doing so thanks to a saddle designed by a lord who was now their enemy. Rather, his house was their enemy. Benjen found it hard to think badly of Tyrion. He was almost relieved that holding him captive – as Caitlyn had demanded – had never been a possibility.

From the day after he had sat Robb on his arse, he began making it part of his routine to cross swords with Desmond. Their bouts were no show. He did not need others to see his captain inflict more and more bruises upon him. But he did need the practice and told himself that the aches he felt in the evening and in the morning meant it was doing him good. Arrana noticed and expressed her sympathy exactly as he would have expected, which is to say she teased him without mercy. Still, it took his mind off what was to come.

* * *

Two days after the party sent to Moat Cailin had returned there came more riders from the south. The guards eventually made out the merman banner of House Manderly. When their impending arrival was announced, Pate naively remarked that the Manderlys were supposed to gather in the south, at that ancient fortress that guarded the North. His master knew better. They had come to talk. But why Lord Wyman had not sent another raven made him curious.

The gates opened and men and horses spilled quickly into the yard, the first two bearing their banners. He was not surprised to see it was Ser Wylis. Fat like his father, but not so large he could not ride. His bald head and large moustache marked him as the heir of White Harbour. While he carried the confidence of a lord, his voice was quiet as he exchanged greetings with the Starks of Winterfell.

"My lord, I have a message from my father that he did not wish to trust to a raven," he said, gaining the attention of all who heard.

"Very well," he replied, testing all of his patience not to demand that the man tell him there and then. "We shall talk in my solar. Robb, I would have you join us."

When the three were seated and their guest offered a drink, the Starks stared at him expectantly. Wylis looked nervous for a second before fumbling for a note that he passed over.

"My father says it is from our man in Kings Landing," he said.

"We have a man in Kings Landing?"

Benjen was aware of his nephew's question but too engrossed in reading the message, scrawled in the smallest of writing. Any smaller and he could not have made out the words, he thought.

"What does it say uncle?"

His expression must have told a story and while for a second he considered whether he should, he decided to share. Robb had a right to know.

"With my approval, Lord Manderly had a man travel south, armed with his ears, his eyes and a few ravens," he said.

"The hope was that we might learn of what was happening; what we might not have learned from your father. A warning perhaps of what might come our way."

"But there was no warning," Robb said. "The only message from Kings Landing was from the boy king."

"That's true, but this man may have done us a greater service. His words speak of fighting in the Red Keep, of rumours, but what provoked Lord Manderly to have his son bring this to us is that it has news of your sisters.

"They escaped. They're free from the Lannisters – or at least when this was sent, we cannot know now. It seems that caused uproar with the city searched and men sent out in all directions."

"Then, my lords, they could still be free," Wylis offered.

"They could," Benjen replied, nodding along with Robb. "We will pray that they are, and that they are returned to us safely."

Left unsaid was his thinking that the girls could be in more danger than if they were held by the Lannisters, who, he knew, would likely keep them alive and probably even in comfort to use them as hostages. Fleeing, as they were, wherever they were, could see them face untold threats. But he had to be hopeful.

The North would march soon. Camp sites had been marked around Winterfell. The levies of Deepwood Motte and Torrhen's Square were a day and a half away. Those of Roose Bolton, of the Umbers and the Karstarks, would be coming too. Those from the Stark estates – foot and horse alike – who had trained so hard with Robb and Theon were being gathered again and marched to Castle Cerwyn.

Though he would not voice the thought to Robb, the news of Sansa and Arya did not change anything. A war must be fought. And it was coming closer by the day.

* * *

Days of waiting were followed by days of marching. An army of 20,000 and more was at his back, but still there was no blood to shed, not yet, but soon. More talking was to be had first. He walked to another dreaded meeting with another lord. He had grown tired of battles fought with words but was under no illusion that he would have any love either for those fought with spears and swords.

Little had kept him awake at night as they had marched from Winterfell to Moat Cailin and on through the Neck. He had grown in confidence from handling those matters that had demanded his attention. The Northern lords had approved of his justice for those few men who had earned it. While they did not readily give praise, it was clear they were content with the plans that had been made.

Those gathered at Winterfell by the appointed date were divided in two and marched over two days south to prepared camps. A day's march between parts of the army was not a concern so far from their foe. But it did allow for a steady pace and ensured the provisions supplied along the way met their needs. None had cause for complaint, and neither did Benjen at the numbers that had answered the call.

Along the way they were met on the Kings Road by the banners of the Barrowlands and the Rills, and by the Manderlys at Moat Cailin. They stayed a day at the old fortress. The work there was pleasing. Ser Wendel and his House had done well. That was noted by a few lords who questioned whether the Manderlys coveted a new lordship with Moat Cailin as its seat. It was the Greatjon who quietened them by reminding all that Robb had two brothers and Benjen a son – a long line of Stark men who must surely be favoured first with such an honour.

When they crossed into the Riverlands, they saw that Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing, had called his men to arms but that they remained camped around his castle, on both sides of the Green Fork. There was word that the Freys may have fought Lannister outriders the day before but it was not known whether the fighting was of much consequence.

Ser Stevron Frey, the heir, met the Northern army and invited Benjen to the Twins to parlay with his father. Northern lords urged caution; Lord Walder's name did not carry much trust. But Benjen hushed their protests, calming both they and Ser Stevron who bristled at the suggestions of trickery.

When Lord Walder observed the custom of sharing bread and salt with his guests, Benjen felt some relief and wondered to himself if this was unfair on the old man. At the same time he knew that if any lord of the North dared to withhold his strength when summoned he would face more than harsh words.

News had come that morning of Edmure's capture in front of Riverrun. It had been maddening for the Northern lords who thought Benjen's request that he avoid battle to await their arrival was entirely sensible. While Lord Frey had seemingly disobeyed his own lord, some 4000 swords could not be dismissed.

"How history repeats," the old man on the dais above them said when all was still.

"Pardon Lord Frey?"

"A Stark goes south and falls foul of a king and his brother calls his banners. That was not 20 years ago and yet here we are again, are we not Benjen Stark?"

That he did not give him a courtesy title was deliberate; intended perhaps to get a rise. But he had no wish to argue with the man, and what he said was true enough. So he formed a small smile and nodded.

"I would agree Lord Frey. Once again the Seven Kingdoms have been graced with a king who has brought war to our lands," he replied evenly.

"Oh has he? I thought our new king had asked you and your nephew to swear your loyalty in Kings Landing, not to march at the end of an army?"

"I believe he asked the same of you Lord Frey, and yet here we all are. I see you have gathered your men and your sons look ready for war."

"I suppose you question why they are here and not at Riverrun? Do you have something to say about that Stark? If your brother were here I suppose he would be calling me the late Lord Frey. Don't tell me he hasn't said those words to you."

It was not lost on Benjen that the man had chosen to hold back his men, defying his lord, as he had done in Robert's Rebellion, earning that name he obviously despised. But he was being dared to criticise him in his own castle and he would not go down that path.

"Lord Frey, what I have heard – as, I am sure, have you – is that Lord Edmure Tully has been defeated before Riverrun, which now is certain to be under siege. We know too that a second Lannister host is marching toward your lands.

"If House Frey had been able to march earlier – and I say _if_ because I know it takes time to gather one's men – would they have done so only to be lost?

"No, I worry not about what others might say, Lord Frey, what I say is that House Frey should join with the strength of the North and together we shall bloody the lion."

There were murmurs of approval from the men of House Frey; mostly from the young men eager to prove themselves. It was something. There was a change too in the demeanour of their patriarch, but it was his cunning that came to the fore.

"Aye, Lord Stark, we could, but we are sworn to the king and his heirs. So why would we not throw our lot in with his grandfather? You know it is Tywin Lannister himself who marches here with as many men as you?"

"A boy king who insulted your House by questioning your loyalty and who is invading your lands for no just cause, but yes you could, Lord Frey, and maybe you would be rewarded well and maybe not."

This was the heart of the matter, Benjen knew. The Freys would have their toll. It seemed Walder decided it was time to drop the pretence too as he ordered all his sons and grandsons, true and natural all the same, to leave the hall.

"There are some who believe you Northerners do not know how to use what is between your ears, but I see that you have found some use of yours' Lord Stark," Walder said, letting out a throaty laugh before becoming serious again.

"Hoster Tully and his father before him have never respected my House. Oh, lords across the Seven Kingdoms are no different. You see how many kin I have – and they were just the boys. I offer betrothals and am refused, often without any courtesies. They all think they are so much better.

"Your brother refused me when I offered a daughter to warm your bed and whelp you pups, and now here you are asking for my help."

"In truth, my Lord Frey, my brother refused all offers. I did not allow him to choose my wife. We had an agreement that it was my choice alone."

"A privilege wasted on the young," Walder spat. "But that is past. I am told only Ned's eldest girl is betrothed, though I doubt the Lannisters will honour that arrangement. So tell me, would you betroth your brother's heir to a daughter of mine?"

"My brother has entrusted me with much," Benjen said. "And I may have crossed the line here and there, and may yet again, but I do not see that it is within my powers to agree to betrothals for his children. His wife would have something to say about that, I do not doubt."

"Ha, another Tully, and where is she? Cowering in Riverrun I am told. No matter. You have your own pups, do you not? And I am told your brother gave you lands of your own?"

"You are well informed Lord Frey. I do have children, yes, though my daughter Alys is betrothed already and my son Artos is not yet of an age . . ."

Walder scoffed before he could finish.

"You are never too young for a betrothal Lord Stark," he sneered. "I have so many girls here the boy can choose. I will pay a reasonable dowry, of course. This is a good beginning."

Benjen almost paled at the thought of explaining to Arrana that he made betrothals for both their twins, but then the meaning of Walder's last sentence hit him. He needed to take some control.

"Betrothals are all well and good, but there are other arrangements we can make to bring our Houses closer together that would be of more benefit," he said.

The weasel raised his eyebrows.

"We have few sers on our lands. It is not truly a custom of those of us who follow the Old Gods, but I respect it all the same. And we do have need of men who can manage our lands and lead in time of war.

"You have many knighted sons and grandsons and only one will inherit. House Frey is strong, but it would be difficult to find lands for all. Under my own seat, I could give lands that would provide sufficient incomes to support two . . ."

"Three," Walder interjected.

"Very well, three," he agreed. "But I will choose them from those you put forward after the fighting is done, and they will pledge fealty to me and to House Stark."

"And to your heir, his Frey wife, and their children."

The man would not let go on a betrothal, and maybe it was no surprise, Benjen thought, given how many times he had been wed himself. Worse fates could befall Artos. At least he would have a choice, which was more than he had given Alys, although there was no certainty that they would not all look like their father.

"We have an agreement Lord Frey," he said sincerely. "I expect Ser Stevron will lead your men and he will have a seat on my council."

"Yes, yes, we will work the details out later, and you can take a younger son too as your squire and another to squire for your nephew," Walder added.

"We are risking much by making allies against Tywin Lannister. I will need to keep part of our levies here to hold the Twins.

"In a day you will have my men and yours marching away to Riverrun to rescue that Tully wife of your brother, leaving Tywin unchallenged on the opposite side of the river. He may give chase or he may lay siege to us here."

"That was not my intention Lord Frey."

"What do you mean? It may not be your intention but when you cross our bridge . . ."

"We will not cross your bridge," Benjen said. "We will face the Old Lion."


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8 – A Battle Begins**

For four days they marched south from the Twins with the Green Fork an almost constant presence over their right shoulders. Every hour or two brought another message. Men would turn their heads as a rider carried word to their lord and there would be whispering up and down the line.

Battle was coming, everyone knew, and they showed it in different ways. Some would put on an air of bravado that fooled no one. When they made camp, men would fuss over weapons; honing already sharp blades. Tensions boiled over here and there with fists thrown about the most minor of grievances. But, for most, the nights saw men seek reassurance in their friends, new and old.

Benjen Stark would walk around the campfires, sharing a word with a knot of men, sometimes leaving a skin of wine to be enjoyed in his wake. He thought it important to show his confidence in them, and he was truly confident. He was confident they would fight fiercely for House Stark and die fiercely too, but triumph? That, he felt, was on his shoulders and as he drew ever nearer to the great Tywin Lannister – the man who gave the Seven Kingdoms the Rains of Castamere – he felt ever lonelier.

The irony was he did not have one moment to himself. Not even to take a piss. Desmond and his household guards were always around. Robb, Theon, Jon, and Artos – he referred to them as "the boys" to Rickard, knowing they were more than that, but it seemed apt. They were never far. And nor seemed to be the lords of the North and those of Walder Frey's brood – approaching him on the march whenever they saw an opportunity or hovering outside his tent.

For the past three nights he had summoned only those lords he needed for counsel. With Rickard and "the boys", it was still a crowded gathering. They had heard the reports of their scouts; of the fighting between those sent out ahead of both armies. They had studied their well-worn map, surmising where they thought the Lannister's main body was and where and when they might meet. They were fairly sure of their enemy's numbers. About 20,000-strong, with maybe three in eight mounted knights and men at arms. That was what most worried Benjen. It always had.

Their meeting had almost ended when a guard interrupted.

"My Lord Stark, they've captured a Lannister spy. Brought him 'ere case you want to deal with him m' lord."

The man was brought forth, a strong Stark guard on either side of him, holding him almost off the ground. He had a bloodied face that failed to hide his fear.

"Where are you from?"

The question threw him off guard even more than his captors did when Benjen gestured for them to drop him. From his knees he looked up at the Northern lord, while trying to keep his head down. It was typical of a lowborn man who knew he was in a world of trouble.

"Ah . . . not . . . not far m' lord," the man stumbled.

"And you are spying for the Lannisters whose army is invading your home?"

"I didn't want to do it m' lord. I swear I didn't. They asked who could count and I can, count I mean, so they made me. They said they'd kill me if I didn't."

"You're not going to be counting no more," the Greatjon spoke up. "You better fetch your father a block Artos, he's going to be needing one."

The man's eyes widened. Artos looked to his father but did not move. He knew enough not to do as his uncle bid.

"How many did you count? How many men do we have, how many horse?"

It was Robb who asked the questions now.

"I got twenty and two thousand m'lord. I made it one in five on horse, not more. Please, m'lords, I swear by all the gods they made me. They were going to kill my brother too they said, if I don't come back with your numbers."

Benjen had seen many men meet their end. Some accepted their fate before sentence was passed. Others – like this one – held on to hope right until the sword came down, begging for their lives, calling on their gods.

"You should go then. You should go and find the Lord Lannister and tell him what you saw," Robb declared.

There was a shocked silence at that. Lords looked to each other; the man raised his head, wanting to believe he would get to keep it.

"Robb," Benjen began. "We need to keep every advantage we have. If you want to spare the man we could send him to the Watch, but . . ."

"I care not for his fate uncle. I say we send the old Lannister a message. This man can do that, can't you?"

The man nodded furiously.

"Good then tell him the North is marching. Tell him winter is coming."

"You don't go sending spies on their way my boy," the Greatjon snarled. "You want to send Tywin a message? Let's send him his head."

The man paled again, his shoulders slumping.

"I am not your boy Lord Umber," Robb spat. "I am my father's heir and a man grown and I have said what I will have done with him."

"Your uncle leads this army . . ."

"That's enough," Benjen snapped. "Do it. Put him on a horse and send him south. I'm sure Lord Tywin will be happy to grease his hands with coin when he sings of what he saw."

The guards moved to take the man and their lord turned away, reaching for a drink.

"Now leave me," he commanded. "Get some sleep. We're done for the night."

Men and lords filed out until only his good brother remained.

"Your nephew needs to be reminded of his place," the Greatjon said when they were alone. "That was a mummer's farce."

"Aye," Benjen agreed.

* * *

"You've got to stop pissing yourself in your sleep lad."

Alic had not heard the man approach. His gaze was fixed above the tents to where the hills beyond touched the sky. It was there that the night was beginning to give way to the new day. He had been alone with his thoughts for a good hour.

By the time he realised who it was the man had sat himself on the log beside him.

"Morning Rick," he said.

"Morning? Barely, I'd say. Might as well stay up now I s'pose. How long have you been sitting here?"

"A while . . . I was polishing my sword."

His companion snorted and Alic opened his mouth to protest, but shook his head with a grin.

"I wouldn't have guessed you'd be the first up though lad?"

Alic could not think of an answer. It had long been a running joke among the men whose tent they shared that the second to last one out at daybreak had to give him a kick. But these past few mornings he had been the first to rise.

He worried that the others would notice and think him scared.

"Ah well s'pose my father was right," Rick said. "He used to wake me every morning, saying 'Rickard boy you can sleep when you're dead, get up and be useful with ya'."

"He was allowed to call you that then?"

Alic took the opportunity to talk about something else, and, besides, Rick – or Rickard – had made a point about his name to everyone he met.

"Aye," he replied. "You can't tell your father what to call you. The old bastard, and he was a bastard I'll tell you, he gave me the name himself so that was that."

"Why do you not . . . ," Alic let his voice trail off, knowing he was wrong to ask.

He turned to look at the man and was met with a hard stare that had him forming the words in his mind to apologise, but Rick spoke first.

"You keep this to yourself, aye?"

"By the Old Gods, I swear," Alic said.

"I had an uncle," Rick began in a quieter voice. "My father's brother. I was already born and named for him when they marched south. You know, the last time – Robert's Rebellion.

"My mother . . . I don't remember her. She got sick and died before my father came back. He was a good man. Every other night he'd be screaming in his sleep. For a while I guess I thought he was calling for me, but it was his brother he wept for. He never did speak of him. I just know he died down here, somewhere.

"In the mornings the old bastard would wake like nothing, you know, and he would give me a kick and tell me I could sleep when I was dead. The name . . . It brought my father so much pain. He tried to hide it during the day, but there was no hiding from the night terrors."

Alic could not think of a word to say. He met Rick's eyes again and nodded sincerely.

So many days had gone by since they had gathered in the village near Winterfell and began their long march. Every step had taken them further from home. Before he had seen so little of the lands outside where he had grown. Even Castle Cerwyn was new to him. It was exciting to see so much that he had only heard about from others' stories. The old fortress at Moat Cailin, the Neck with its man-eating lizard-lions, all gave tales to tell now of his own.

The days were long and his body ached from the marching. He envied the lords on their horses. But, still, he enjoyed being around the other men. He was not among the shortest or the tallest, neither the eldest nor the youngest. Others talked more; one had an odd laugh, another talked every night about all the women he had fucked. All the same, Alic was one of these men; he belonged here.

At the Twins and beyond, the land had changed again. The Kings Road took them over rolling hills, through forests, but there was more farmed land, more people and that great river besides them. Two moons past he would have been working in fields like these. But then the lords had said there was different work to be done. They gave him a pike and a helm and they marched him off to war.

He had awoke before the dawn the past few mornings with the truth of it all. This was not an adventure; it was war. And he feared what was to come.

The sound of men yelling drew his attention. A rider was calling out as he moved his horse around campfires and tents. His words were answered by the shouts of others. Men rose in haste at the din. Alic and Rick were no longer alone as the men of their tent emerged around them.

"The Lannisters are on the march . . . Only a few hours away, maybe less," the rider was still yelling as he passed them by.

"Seems you weren't the only one to rise early this morning," Rick quipped.

* * *

"I doubt the old lion would be too happy to see us like this my lord."

"Huh?"

"Our ranks are in good order," Rickard said. "Prepared for battle. He meant to catch us off guard did he not?"

"Oh, yes," Benjen replied.

He had been deep in thought, staring across the field to where he imagined Tywin Lannister was staring back. He had a feeling of being watched and wondered if the man whose banners he could see felt the same. He turned his horse, presenting his back to their foe and eying in turn Rickard, Jon and Artos. They were hanging on the words he wasn't speaking.

"Come," he said as he pulled on the reins again and touched his heels into his horse's sides. The young men followed, two guards with Stark banners following close behind.

They rode away from the Green Fork for half a mile before he brought them to a halt. The distinctive flayed man banners of House Bolton and further on the twin blue towers and bridge of House Frey were flapping in the breeze. Some six and a half thousand pairs of eyes were upon him. The two houses – the Stark's most powerful liege lord and the ally he had gained at the price of lands and his son's hand – were the left flank of his army.

Half a league away thousands of the finest knights and men at arms of Westerlands were emerging through a spare forest. Most of their horse, Benjen thought, as he watched them slowly forming into three lines, each at least as long as the Northern left. The Boltons and Freys had half their men of horse fighting on foot to strengthen their infantry. Benjen could see that even so the numbers here would be even. They just had to hold.

There was an air of expectance that he would speak, but he had not thought ahead of what to say. He brought his horse closer to the Bolton centre and spied their lord looking back at him in his grey plate armour.

"My Lord Bolton," he called.

"Lord Stark?"

"I would have House Bolton do the North a great service today."

"Yes Lord Stark?"

"I would have you show those bastards over there just how sharp your blades are!"

"We shall my lord, we shall," Roose Bolton replied.

Cheers rose up from the Bolton ranks, men yelling their house words and many more simply "the Dreadfort". As they grew louder Benjen gave Roose a last look before turning to head back down the line.

The cheers of the army followed them as they trotted and then cantered past the banners of the Umbers, the Hornwoods, the Karstarks, the Flints, the Dustins and the Ryswells. Six noble houses and another 7000 men or more – the centre of his army. In the very centre, he knew, was Rickard Karstark. He spied him as they rode past and saw the man thrusting his sword to the sky as he added his voice to it all.

The Stark and Cerwyn levies were next – five large squares of closely packed men with pikes and several hundred archers – and then more of the same of the masterly houses of Glover and Tallhart. The Manderlys were on their right, the Green Fork keeping them company. The mailed fist on a red background marked where Galbart Glover stood among the right wing he commanded.

He turned at the first of the Manderly banners, bringing them back through their lines, between Stark and Ryswell foot, as the cheers quietened. He had chosen a small rise – small but the highest on these fields – to stand. From here, a good bow shot from the front of their ranks, he aimed to lead an army to victory. But all he had a mind to do now was wait.

The Lannister's foot were forming up in great numbers in the centre and on their left – before the Northern right – their vanguard of a thousand or so horse waited too, as it had for an hour or more.

Rickard had the right of it – the North and their allies were ready. Tywin had hoped to meet them on the march. Their vanguard would have hit them front on, sowing confusion as the infantry came behind them. The Northmen would have marched into battle, banner by banner, gradually pushing back their enemy with weight of numbers. But then that great mass of mounted knights and men-at-arms now gathering before their left would have rode around to hit their flank like a great right hook. It was fortunate indeed, he thought, that their outriders had been in close contact with their enemy and raised the alarm.

"They're going to charge our right," Rickard said.

"Aye, Tywin will be looking to weaken us there. He will want us to loose all our arrows, to commit our reserves," Benjen said.

The men turned in their saddles to inspect those mounted men behind them. A thousand strong and led by Roger Ryswell, heir to the Rills and Rickard's elder brother. They stood on and about the Kings Road, about a mile back from the Stark levies but not hidden from the Lannister lines.

The blaring of horns brought their attention back to the front. Tywin had sent his vanguard forward. They began at the walk. Their pace would increase as they closed the distance – only reaching the gallop at the last moment.

"Jon," he called to the nephew beside him. "Tell Lord Roger that I would have him counter-charge but only once they have hit our lines. Remind him not to pursue."

"Yes uncle."

* * *

For an hour Alic had seen little more than the backs of the men in front. Occasionally he glanced to his left where there were only two men between him and empty space. But he learned only that there was another square of men with their pikes pointed to the sky, waiting, just like them.

What he could not see he could hear and he could feel. The thunder of hooves that had begun shortly after the blaring of horns was not just a noise growing ever louder, it was a tremour in the ground that made his legs tingle. Men around him murmoured and shuffled where they stood.

Captains and serjeants yelled to them to keep quiet, to stay in line, to be ready. Then came the order that caused him to turn to face to the left. The only conscious thought he had was to be careful as he lowered his spear between the men in front. He saw the neighbouring square again and wondered how any man or horse could approach. But they were coming. Closer and closer.

From the front they heard a clash. It was like nothing he had ever heard before. There were grunts and cries of agony. He braced himself. His eyes were wildly searching between men for a sight of the enemy. He was breathing hard.

His pike was forced from his hands. There was no telling why. The man with his back to him went to his knees. He couldn't remember his name. A horse reared, hooves kicking as it fell on its side. Sods of dirt flew through the air. Steel clashed with steel. Men and animals made noises; terrible noises. Confusion and terror engulfed him. He was jostled by the men all around him, but held his ground.

He had drawn his sword. A gift from his grandfather, wielded, he said, by his father before him. Only as long as his arm from the tip to the rounded pommel. Sharpened and polished over and over on the long march. The streak of rust near the hilt had stubbornly refused to yield.

Held with one hand out in front of him, it was a battle to keep the sword steady. He felt his whole body shaking, shivering. A sudden nudge from behind caught him off balance and he stumbled forward a step. Men were fighting, but no foes came his way. A dying horse, a dying man, they were his closest companions.

His eyes were drawn a few feet to his right. A Stark man like him, but braver, for he was fighting, was swinging down at a suite of armour. The Westerlands knight was big, impossibly big. Even kneeling like he was his broad shoulders and massive helm made it obvious that this man was huge. The sword was coming down over and over, but the knight was holding it at bay with a great length of steel that he wielded with just one hand.

The Stark man was cursing and screaming as he swung down again and again. A pike was being thrust from the far side at the knight. The yellow cloth worn over his armour was torn and he looked to have taken a fall from his horse. There was an arrow stuck in the back of his leg. But he had his free hand down to help support his weight and was trying to come to his feet.

With one step Alic was almost beside the great knight, who was roaring beneath that imposing helm. His left hand gripped the blade of his old sword a few inches from the tip. Thumb on the flat on one side, fingers on the other. He moved closer and guided it through a gap he had spied in the plates of armour under his right shoulder. He pushed with his right hand but it only went an inch further.

His left hand took hold of the cross-guard and he put all his weight behind it, feeling the resistance of what must have been chainmail under the plate armour. How did he move in so much armour? The knight was paying him no mind, but he was moving and the man swinging down upon him was tiring. Franticly he shifted his footing and pulled his sword back a little before thrusting forward with every ounce of his strength. Still it did not give.

Alic tried again and again, hard, sharp thrusts between the great knight's plate armour into the pit of his arm, but the chainmail held them back. Then suddenly – just as he began to truly panic – through his hands and arms he felt something different. There was give as his sword went further than before. He stopped in surprise; his blade had pierced the flesh of the man and that helm turned dangerously towards him. The roaring had stopped.

He gave a long yell of his own and pushed deeper until his hands brushed against the knight's armour. The man slowly fell away and Alic held tightly to his sword as it emerged with a streak of blood. Staring down at the body he could not believe its size. It made him think of the giants that people said once lived north of the Wall. Some said they still did.

The Stark man who had battered the knight with a sword to no affect was saying something, but a serjeant, not his but one he recognised, yelled to them. Alic heard only one word: "Kill."

His eyes found a man lying on the ground with a dead horse atop his legs only a few feet away. Why had he not seen him before? There was no helm on his head or sword in his hand. On his chest was the same yellow cloth that the giant wore with three black animals that he could not make out. Were they dogs? Young like him, he had sandy hair, and looks that he might have envied. He was trying desperately to free himself, but stopped when Alic lowered the point of his bloodied, old sword. With a grunt and a grimace the blade was driven through the man's throat under his chin, twisted and pulled back out. Eyes went wide and then were empty.

The sight of what he had done made him take a step back. His head turned as he took in his surroundings. A familiar man had his knee in another's back. With one hand he gripped hair and pulled back savagely while his other hand swept around with a flash of steel. A moment later he stood and turned back. It was Rick walking towards him, a knife in his hand. Horses rushed past them. Men were yelling, cheering. He saw a flash of white.

"Is it over?"

"No," Rick shook his head. "I think it's just beginning."


End file.
